


To Own One's Heart

by MoonshineEvelyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Protective Sandor Clegane, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonshineEvelyn/pseuds/MoonshineEvelyn
Summary: When Sansa’s family fell from their position in the Society, it is left upon her to marry so that her bride price can be used to pay for the debts and keep her family’s business afloat. It is a lot to ask of her but if Sansa is anything, it’s a wolf and she will not bow down to adversaries easily. Even if the adversary is her betrothed, a formidable man with a face full of scars, a mouth that only spews filth and a reputation that only inspires fear, even from her.





	1. Prologue: A Walk to the Gallows

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this even though I am currently trying to finish another fic of mine. Even though I have an outline of this fic drawn to completion and have penned down the first few chapters, I want to first finish the other fic (Trial Period). Therefore, I will update this fic at least once a week. Then again, those who know me know that I always break that promise and upload almost everyday because I have no life :))
> 
> As the tags say, this is set in Regency Era, there will be some change in settings to suit the story. 
> 
> Chapter 1 is short because it is just a prologue. The coming chapters will be longer. 
> 
> I hope you like the story.

Sansa sits at her vanity, looking down at her skirts, not even meeting the eyes of her own reflection.  
  
Tears roll off her cheeks into the silk of her skirt, staining the pink of the cloth with crooked circles of sorrow.  
  
Sansa Stark, at ten and five had her whole wedding planned out. She would wed in the way of the Old Gods. Their rituals was the stuff of fairytales. She would walk down the snowy path in a white gown of wool, the train tracing the leaves of the Weirwood tree, her hand tucked in her father’s arms. He would hand her over to her golden haired prince. They would kneel before the tree that witnessed thousands of blessed unions, vow their love to the Gods silently, away from the gaze of the world and seal their union with a kiss. She would look ethereal, her groom the image of strength and her mother would cry silent tears of happiness and separation alike.  
  
Instead, she was going to walk down the aisle in the Sept of Baelor. She was going to stand before a man she barely knew, recite words she did not mean in the least, kiss a man she had never met before and smile for the crowds as if she were the happiest woman in the world. All without her father. Without her eldest brother. Without a trace of love.  
  
A sob tore from her chest at the thought of her father.  
  
People saw Eddard Stark as a man whose decisions wrought pain and loss to House Stark.  
  
It was Eddard Stark who promised his daughter to the eldest son of House Baratheon, a son who was later imprisoned on charges of assault, rape and murder. The union had been, needless to say, dissolved. But Sansa Stark came to be brandished as the girl who was once betrothed to the infamous Joffrey Baratheon. The disastrous fallout between the two Great Houses had led to their joint investment ventures becoming a fail which left a huge impact on Stark Industries. Eddard Stark went into a spree of borrowing and loans to revive his business and the strain of it all claimed his heart’s strength. His demise left the house with a ruined reputation and a huge debt.  
  
The Society knew him as a naive man who made one too many mistakes.  
  
To Sansa, he was her father. The man who hefted her on broad shoulders, the one who chased her through the yard with loud mock growls, the one whom she ran to when she had nightmares, the one who snuck her lemon cakes after feasts. He was her favourite person in the world. He was her pillar of strength, her biggest inspiration. The Society didn’t know him like she did. No one knew him like she did.  
  
If he were alive, he’d never let this happen to her, to his princess. He would fight the world to defend her against the Society’s claws. He would never do this to Sansa.  
  
Once he passed away, the only hope for their House was to marry into a family that would help with the recovery. House Frey had agreed to let their daughter marry Robb in exchange for 20% shares in Stark Industries. It was a hard pill to swallow but they had no other options left. Their house was disgraced to the extent that no other house was willing to offer a girl for Robb.  
  
Everything had been done and decided and prepared and a week before the wedding they had woken to their mother’s hysterical crying. Robb had eloped with a girl, leaving the family’s fate to uncertainty. The last visages of their standing slipped from their grasp.  
  
Sansa was the next in line for the butchering.  
  
Her proposals, even with her beauty and purity, were even lesser. It _hurt_ to have men turn their faces away from her in distaste for actions that she didn’t even commit.  
  
The pink of her skirt feels wrong, the corset binding her chest is making it hard for her to draw her breath, the pins in her hair sting and the weight of her responsibility makes her slump.  
  
She is supposed to arrive downstairs in ten minutes, supposed to mingle with the crowds, charm the men, titillate them even, for one of them to _buy_ her. The thought is revolting and she wishes she never had to see this day. Even in her wildest nightmares, she would have never imagined herself being sold off like an animal. She wouldn’t wish this upon her worst enemy.  
  
A knock raps her door and her mother’s chipped voice remind her that they are ready for her.  
  
Sansa wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, tucking the wayward strands of hair out from her face, takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and looks at her reflection.  
  
Even her reflection seems to take pity on her.  
  
Sansa walks out of the room, past her mother, through the halls, down the stairs to their large open hall.  
  
All she keeps thinking is that if there were a guillotine waiting for her at the end of hall, she’d have run to that instead.  



	2. The Worth of Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Clegane finds himself in the midst of a pretentious party and Sansa finds herself in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me already breaking the promise of uploading once a week. Lol. 
> 
> I have decided to include trigger warning in the chapters. 
> 
> TW- Mention of rape, description of assault.

He didn’t even know why he was here in the first place.  
  
Part of the reason is to satisfy his advisors; Raymond primary among them. They have been pestering him about a marriage for years now.  
  
The Cleganes were an up and coming house. With House Lannister’s name being dragged to the dirt after Joffrey Baratheon’s imprisonment and the subsequent reveal of his parentage, the West was left with a huge power vacuum. Sandor, with his trusted advisors and his extensive knowledge in crops and animals, had built an empire on trade of food products. With his growing wealth, he brought shares to the Lannister Mines Company, now renamed Western Mines Company. Not long after, House Clegane became a part of the Society, with its own Sigil and Words.  
  
His family has never garnered a good reputation. Sandor supposes that he’s the runt of the litter when it comes to his family for unlike his male blood relatives, he has a sound mind, for the most part. He’s built an empire on his own and come to be a part of the Society on his own. He likes the newfound wealth and the pride that comes with being a part of the Society but there is a lot that he is not accustomed to. The obligations and social norms of the Society are still new to him. His advisors seem to think that he needs to have ties beyond business, something personal, something that links him with other great families in the Society. Binding himself to a great House is supposed to elevate his position. It is supposed to be beneficial for his business, in the long run. Sandor doesn’t buy into the logic but he’s wiser than ignoring his advisors’ suggestions entirely. So to satisfy their demands, Sandor often attends to social calls like this.  
  
Raymond, or Ray, as Sandor liked calling him, had told him that one of the easiest ways to rise in the Society, was to marry someone important. With his money, that wouldn’t have been a problem. If only it weren’t for his fucking face. It appeared that no amount of money could lure a woman into marrying him. Besides, a woman who married him for a shallow reason like money would probably leave his ass the first chance she got.  
  
But Ray insisted and Sandor found himself being decked and dressed in ostentatious suits, courting women he didn’t stand a chance of marrying.  
  
Just like whoever this Stark heiress was.  
  
Word was that the Starks were a fallen House. That their great name was no longer great because of their erstwhile associations with House Baratheon and the fact that the eldest son had eloped. Sandor wanted to snort at such things. Who cares if a boy ran away with a woman? Why did that shun a House? The Society and its rules made no sense to him. Stark Industries was a formidable steel manufacturing giant and it was a shame to see it become weak. Ray had grilled him with the advantages of the union. Not only would he gain a high Society wife, he would have 25% shares of the company. It would help Sandor expand his business. The North suffered the most from lack of proper trade of food material and if Sandor secured appropriate contacts through Stark Industries, he could begin trade with the North and fuck, he couldn’t even begin comprehending how much that would contribute to his wealth. Even if that meant marrying a woman the Society considered to be ‘ruined’, who gave a rat’s ass?  
  
All eyes turned to the stairs as the solitary figure of Sansa Stark walked down to the hall.  
  
Dressed in heavy skirts, her hair in an elaborate nest on the top of her head, a simple necklace gracing her delicate throat, she made her way down to the vultures in the room.  
  
Silence settled in the room as the girl made her way down the ornate staircase. The light from the chandelier accentuated the flawless skin, the high cheekbones, the sharp nose, the pout of those perfect pink lips and the gloss of that red hair. She looked like a vision. An angel descending from the heavens. She looked like a sight that mortal men were not supposed to see, like her being here, gracing their peasantry life with her beauty should have them all falling to their knees. Once the girl stepped into the hall, conversation began flowing but Sandor still felt himself driven speechless by the girl’s beauty.  
  
Sandor stood at the back of the room, leaning against a pillar, watching the girl interact with the crowd.  
  
He had been to other Society gatherings, albeit not that many. The crowd here was the same size as the ones elsewhere but the mood of the crowd was very different here.  
  
People here weren’t so much as interested in wooing Sansa as they were in mocking the misfortune of the House that invited them. Everyone wanted to find out what was happening to the family that had begun it’s rapid demise since the death of Eddard Stark seven months ago and the elopement of Robb Stark a month ago. Everyone wanted to revel in the misery of their fellow member of the Society.  
  
It was downright vile how many people pretended to be well wishers but secretly wished harm on their own.  
  
The girl moved from man to man, talking to those the same age as hers as well as those who were older and much older. He could see her put up a smile and chirp pleasantries at people. He could only imagine the amount of training she must have gone through to be able to speak to so many men who clearly despised her.  
  
Truth was, she could tell the sweetest lies, the most flattering compliments, but the men here had already valued her the moment she had walked down the stairs. They weren’t tempted by her wealth and her status, not anymore. They saw a pair of well shaped high tits, narrow waist, rare shade of hair and a tight virginal cunt.  
  
She could be singing Dothraki celebratory songs for all that she cared and the men would nod along. They weren’t listening to her. They had their eyes at her chest and her fair porcelain skin.  
  
She was meat to them. Nothing more.  
  
He sipped a glass of red, following her movement through the room. As she moved from one man to the other, they began snickering and eyeing her curves suggestively. He could hear the men whisper their speculation about what she must look like underneath those layers of the clothes. Will her nipples be as invitingly pink as her skirts? Will they hold upright, seductively high on her tits? Will her arse be as round as it looks over all the layer of skirt? Will the hair on her cunt be as red?  
  
The talk makes his skin crawl and he felt the need to distance himself from the company in the room.  
  
He left his glass on a table nearby and walked around the room and exited from the back door. The air outside was crisp and fresh. The Starks had made a good effort at gardening. He sat down on one of the several benches and took a deep breath of the faint smell of flowers that permeated the air. Back at home in his Keep, there was still reconstruction going on. The increasing business and the growing staff meant that he had to break and rebuild major portions of the place and with everything under construction, they hadn’t gotten to gardening yet. But if he ever does get to it, he hopes he can have one like this, with fountains, lines of trees, bushes and flowers. His mother would have liked to have such a garden, he muses.  
  
His thoughts are broken by the sound of a muffled scream and struggle and he is up and on his feet instantly.  
  
He rose from the bench and went around the back wall of Winterfell Manor.  
  
A man had Sansa Stark pinned to the wall. The man had one arm slapped on the wall next to the girl’s head and another holding her jaw painfully. The girl was struggling in his grip, trying to get away. He could see blood trailing down the girl’s neck and disappearing inside her blouse. Her hair was askew and her lipstick was smudged around her mouth. Before Sandor could make a move, the man withdrew his hand from the girl’s jaw and grabbed her neck and began choking her. He could see the man saying something to the girl as she kept trying to gnaw his hands away from her throat, gasping for breath.  
  
Sandor rounded towards the man as slowly as he could. There was nothing nearby that he could improvise to use as a weapon. He didn’t know if the man was armed and he didn’t want to catch the man off guard, lest he have a weapon on him and use it on the girl.  
  
As he grew closer to the man and the girl, he could hear what the man was saying to her.  
  
“-no one can stop me now. You’re mine now. They say you are untouched. Ain’t that a treat? Imagine how tight you will be when my cock plunges you? Maybe I’ll shove more than just my cock in there, huh? Maybe ruin both your holes. Imagine the sight. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can’t go anywhere now. I own y-”  
  
Before the man could finish his vile thoughts, Sandor growled and charged at the man, grabbing him around the midsection, pulling him off the girl and threw him down to the floor. Sandor was on him in an instant. He had punched the man’s jaw a few times before the man dug a knife out of this waistcoat and stabbed Sandor in the arm with it. As he reeled back from the pain, the man used the momentary distraction to worm his way out and run away. Sandor wanted to chase him down and beat him but he heard whimpering from behind him and saw that the girl dropped down to her knees and was clutching her chest and breathing heavily. When Sandor tried approaching the girl, she scampered away from him, hugging her knees to her chest and looking at him with wide, scared eyes.  
  
He crouched a few feet away from her, holding his arms up in surrender, making himself look as non-threatening as he could with his gnarly face and his 6”7 height.  
  
“It’s alright. I am not here to hurt you. Just let me see to that cut, alright?”  
  
There was a scar on her jawline that was bleeding profusely and purple hand marks decorated her throat. The girl looked at him with fear in her eyes and Sandor couldn’t begin imagining what it must be like for her to be almost choked to death by a monster and then sit a few feet away from another.  
  
He waited, crouching on his knees, ignoring the burn on his bicep where the man had stabbed him. When the girl nodded slowly, he made his way close to her and fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the wound on her face. The girl winced and began whimpering in pain and crying.  
  
“The cut doesn’t look too deep” he mused aloud to keep her distracted from the shock. “It’s alright. You’re fine. Do you want me to get anyone for you? A staff? Or your mother?”  
  
The girl’s hand flew from where she was clutching her knees and grabbed his arms. The slender fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist and for a moment he was fascinated by those milky white fingers clutching his rough, brown skin littered with hair.  
  
“Please don’t tell anyone, sir. They will talk about me. I’ll be ruined. Please sir, I beg of you.”  
  
Sandor feels his ire rise. The girl was assaulted and threatened and all she cares about is what the Society will think of her? Is this what they are teaching to girls in the Society? That their _virtue_ is more important than them?  
  
It angers him and he feels disgusted that he is associated with it now.  
  
“Not a sir!” he snaps and the girl whimpers.  
  
_Stupid dog! Help her; don’t scare her!_  
  
“I need to take you in-”  
  
“SANSA! Sansa, darling, where are you?” a voice erupts from the other side and Sandor whipped his head around just in time to see a middle aged woman with hair the colour of Sansa’s and a teen boy making their way over towards them.  
  
Sandor looks to the girl for confirmation and when she nodded, he called out to the woman who he assumed to be the girl’s mother.  
  
“Lady Stark? She is here!”  
  
The woman and the boy ran towards them in the blink of an eye, he was pushed away and the woman and the boy began crowding Sansa, checking her wounds. With his kerchief in her hand, the girl tried calming her mother and brother, assuring them that she was fine.  
  
The boy turned his gaze towards him, anger radiating in his eyes.  
  
“Who did this?” he asked.  
  
Before Sandor could describe the man’s black hair and sharp jaws, the girl herself spoke up.  
  
“Ramsay. Ramsay Bolton.”  
  
Her answer was followed by the boy staring at her with rage in his eyes and her mother falling back on her haunches with her palm stifling a gasp.  
  
“No. No, Gods no.” the mother said behind her palm.  
  
“It’s alright, mother. It’s fine. I promise it won’t change anything.” the girl tried assuring her mother.  
  
“How can you say that?” the boy asked in disbelief.  
  
Sandor remained in the background, rooted to the spot by an inexplicable reason to know exactly _what_ was going on. He ignored the searing pain in his arm and the trail of blood he could feel leaking out of the wound. Fuck! How hard did the man stab him?  
  
“We have no option left, Bran! Do you know how much he has offered?” the girl cupped her brother’s jaw, her finger brushing away his tears. “Imagine it. You can use that money and revive father’s company. Put all that knowledge you have in your smart brain to use and everything will be back to normal in no time, hmm?”  
  
The boy shook his head resolutely. “You can’t marry that monster, Sansa. Not after this! I won’t let you.”  
  
Everything faded into the background as Sandor finally realized what the girl was talking about. The man, the very man who threatened to rape her was going to marry her. And the girl was going to let him. Because he was apparently going to pay a hefty bride price. He had heard all the disgusting things he had threatened to do to her. He wasn’t even married to her and he threatened to sodomize her with an object. If he had all these evil plans for her, Sandor couldn’t even imagine what he would do to her when he got married to her. In the Society, once a woman married a man, she became his property in every way. The society prided itself in raising 'gentlemen', but cases of abuse were not unheard of. Though recently, such cases were being brought to the court, women who threatened to leave their husband or expose their husband’s behaviour in public were seen as immoral and shunned from the Society.  
  
His head reeled from the implication of what was to happen to the girl if she married that monster and his knees became wobbly with the torrent of information.  
  
“You’re bleeding.” the girl rasped from where she was crouched and Sandor noticed his sleeve staining red.  
  
Fuck, he felt lightheaded.  
  
“How much?” he managed to ask.  
  
“What?” Lady Stark turned around and asked him.  
  
“How much did he offer for her? I’ll double it. Ain’t no way she’s marrying that bastard!” he said, blinking away the white spots that began appearing in the horizon of his sight. Did he say it aloud or was he imagining it all? What was happening to him?  
  
“Sir, are you alright?” the boy asked, appearing in front of him all of a sudden. The boy reached out, attempting to hold Sandor steady.  
  
“Sandor?”  
  
Sandor whipped around and Raymond, good ole Raymond, was standing a few feet away. The man’s face was etched with concern. Always concerned for Sandor Clegane.  
  
Sandor took a tentative step towards the man and his knees gave out. He fell to his knees and Ray appeared before him, grasping Sandor by his arms, his grip on his right bicep flaring the pain.  
  
“Protect. Her.” he mumbled before falling unconscious in the man’s grasp.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I ever going to write a SanSan fic without Ray? Lol no. 
> 
> Also, I'm having too much fun writing this fic. 
> 
> Next update should be on Monday or Tuesday.


	3. Knight in Shining Armour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Sandor Clegane has zero suave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely floored by the response to the last chapter so here's an early update.

  
Sansa had never seen so many men attempting to lift a man before.   
  
Once Lord Clegane - as she had learnt his designation was - fainted, the old man holding him commanded Bran to fetch two men. He gave him their name and description and Bran came in ten minutes later with two men wearing black trousers and yellow tailcoats with the sigil on three dogs stitched over their right sleeve. The men were tall and broad, with facial hair and long hair pulled back at the nape of their neck. They looked plenty strong but still struggled to lift their Lord over their shoulder. Bran guided them through a back entrance towards one of the spare rooms and the men placed the man on the bed after struggling to take his garments off..   
  
Sansa and her mother huddled in the corner of the room as Bran ran out to fetch Maester Luwin. The old man from before held the Lord upright while the other two men tried prying the clothes away from his body. They began getting frustrated with the buttons and clasps and one of the men, the one that looked a bit older, pulled a dagger out and cut through the clothing, ripping it off the man’s chest. Blood was already starting to cake along the man’s right arm. Maester Luwin entered the room just as the men managed to expose the full extent of what the Lord Bolton had done to Lord Clegane. Sansa briefly registered the broad hairy chest and the abundance of scars that littered the man’s whole upper body before the Maester swiftly moved to clean and apply salve to the wound.   
  
The old man and the two other younger men fretted about, eyeing their Lord with worry and whispering among themselves. The old man kept glancing her way and before long, made his way towards her. Sansa steeled herself for being yelled at by the man for putting his Lord in danger. She couldn’t even begin imagining the implications of the damage to House Stark’s reputation it would bring to have one of their guests injured at their gathering.   
  
“Lady Stark. My name is Raymond Hermadur. I am Lord Clegane’s advisor.” he said before giving them a small bow. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances.” The sincerity of his tone was warm and welcoming.   
  
“We regret this turn of events, Mister Hermadur. Please know that we meant your Lord no harm.” her mother said, evading any possibility of a misunderstanding.   
  
“Of course, Lady Stark. Tales of your hospitality are regaled far and wide. We cannot imagine a woman of good faith such as yours to ever have meant our Lord harm. However, I would like to know the circumstances surrounding the Lord’s injury.”  
  
“I believe I owe you an apology, Mister Hermadur.” Sansa rasps, her throat still raw and sore. She swallowed the pain down because she owed the man an explanation and she needed to grovel for forgiveness lest he spread the word that a Lord was injured at a Stark gathering. “My i-intended and I were having a, uh, discussion and I believe my intended lashed out at Lord Clegane wrongfully. I seek your apology, Mister Hermadur. It was never our intention to harm Lord Clegane.”   
  
The man smiled at her kindly and something about his sweet disposition reminded her of another man with kind smiles and it broke her heart. “Oh my child, from all the tales I have heard of the daughter of House Stark, I wouldn’t assume you to be capable of even hurting a fly. Lord Clegane is a strong man and Westermen survive fate much worse than a silly gash. The wound will heal and the scar will pale and our Lord will have another mark of strength on his body.” he smiled at her before turning to her mother with concern in his eyes. “I do however believe that your daughter needs to have her injuries to be looked after. If you would be so kind, may the Lord rest here until he recovers from the injury?”   
  
Her mother is quick to assure the man. “Of course Mister Hermadur. It is the least we can do. I will ask my son to conclude the gathering. I think the revelries must come to an end. We will be more than glad to be able to host you and your men until the Lord regains his strength.”   
  
Her mother guided her to a chaise lounge and excused herself from the room, probably to bring an end to the party happening outside. Mister Hermadur moved back to his Lord’s side and commanded the men to a task that has them nodding and moving out of the door. Maester Luwin, satisfied with his work, spoke to Mister Hermadur, who dismissed the man kindly and asked him to look after her injuries instead. Maester Luwin gently held Sansa’s chin as he cleaned the wound left behind by Lord Bolton’s rings digging into her jaw. He winced looking at the bruise on her neck and applied salve there, instructing Sansa on aftercare. The pain only served to remind her what was in store for her in the future with her betrothed. Would House Bolton have someone as kind as Maester Luwin to look after her injuries?   
  
“I have stitched the wound close. Lord Clegane has lost blood and would require rest over the next few days. Gods be good, the injury is not grave.” Maester Luwin declared before excusing himself from the room.  
  
Sansa sat on the lounge, awkwardly fiddling with the Lord’s kerchief in her hand, Mister Hermadur came before her, crouching on the floor to be on eye level with Sansa.   
  
“Is that Lord Clegane’s, my Lady?” he asked, indicating the kerchief she held in her hand.   
  
She nodded before looking at the man through her lashes. “I am sorry for the stains on blood on the cloth. I will ensure it is cleaned and pressed before I return it to the Lord.”  
  
The man chuckles at her kindly. “No, my Lady. It is alright. You need not fret.”   
  
The man paused for a while, searching Sansa’s face for something before speaking in a gentle tone.   
  
“My Lady, I do not mean to intrude. But did your intended do this to you?” he said, looking at the imprint of Ramsay’s fingers on her throat. The reminder of the man and his actions made Sansa want to hide in her bed and cry. She did not want to cry in front of Mister Hermadur so she just nodded at him. His Lord was injured because of her; he deserved the truth. Something about the man’s disposition was so kind and gentle, he wanted to tell him all her troubles and worries.   
  
“Then I imagine Lord Clegane was defending you when he received the wound?” he asked gently and Sansa nodded.   
  
“I did not mean to injure anyone, Mister Hermadur. I am sincerely sorry for the injuries your Lord has sustained because of me.” she said earnestly, hoping the man would not begrudge her House for her stupidity.   
  
“Of course not, my Lady. If Sandor would have stood by and watched as a girl was hurt in front of his eyes and did nothing to protect her, I would have been very cross with him.” the man said with a chuckle and Sansa was shocked at the informal use of the Lord’s name by his advisor. When she looked up at the man, there was mirth in his eyes. Sansa was struck again by how paternal the man was. “Please do not hold yourself at fault for the turn of events, my Lady. House Clegane will never hold you accountable for any of this. We are only concerned about your well-being. Besides, the Lord’s injuries are not that severe. He should regain consciousness by tomorrow morning. Please look after yourself, My Lady.” The man said with a pat on her shoulder. Just then her mother walked in, declaring that the guests had begun leaving. Sansa’s shoulders sagged in relief. She couldn’t keep the pretense for too long. She wanted to go to her room, curl up under her blankets and cry until the weight on her heart settled some.   
  
“Maester Luwin has instructed to let the Lord have his rest. If you would be so kind, I will have my daughter looked after. My son, Bran will show you the rooms for you and your men and look after your needs.”  
  
With that, Sansa felt her mother gently lift her from the chair and guide her away with a hand in the crook of her arm. Sansa gave Mister Hermadur a small smile in parting. Sansa followed along as her mother guided her to her room. Her dear friend, Jeyne waited for her in her room and upon seeing Sansa, hugged her gently. It was only when the girl pulled away that she saw tears in her friend’s eyes. Jeyne guided Sansa to the bath where she helped Sansa escape the several layers of clothing. Away from the watchful eyes of her mother and everyone else, in the comforting presence of her friend, Sansa broke down into tears once she was stripped down to her shift. Jeyne engulfed her immediately and her comforting hand running along her back only made Sansa cry more.   
  
  
How was she going to survive marrying that monster? If he did even a third of what he threatened her, she would die of pain. The things he told her, they were downright disgusting. Pure evil that she had heard men doing in times of war. But he had agreed to pay her family 400,000 dragons. House Bolton was preceeded by rumours of rape and torture but there was no evidence to it and though her skin had crawled at his proposal, she had to convince herself to accept her fate for her family.   
  
She closed her eyes, reminding herself why the money was important. It could revive the losses Stark Industries had suffered. It could provide the impetus for Bran, smart, insightful, intelligent Bran to take over the company in three years and help it soar and expand to the extent that father had envisioned. Her sacrifice would mean that Arya, her little hellion of a sister could have the independence to fall in love and marry a kind man. It would help baby Rickon to be raised in a family that knew not want. Her sacrifice could change her mother’s and sibling’s life. Her father would be proud of her for what she was doing, she reminded herself.   
  
And if the Gods had pity, she would meet her father not too soon after being married into House Bolton.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sansa woke groggy from the medicine induced sleep.   
  
She remembered crying and thrashing. She remembered the maester forcing her to drink a sweet concoction. She didn’t remember anything after.   
  
Ever since that day, Sansa tried finding semblance of normalcy in her life. She tried working around the house in a mechanical manner, helping the staff with their work. She tried her best to keep herself distracted and not think about her imminent union with Lord Ramsay. They still hadn’t heard from Lord Bolton and she could only assume that he forgave the whole incident. But last night had been different. She had gone to bed and sometime in the middle of the night, had woken up by a nightmare, thrashing around the bed. What followed was several hands pinning her down and a sweet concoction and then nothing.   
  
She felt a movement next to her and turned to wide blue, innocent eyes looking up at her. Rickon peeked at her from behind his wild curly hair, his thumb in his mouth.   
  
She turned to face him, brushing his unruly curls away from his face. He smiled at her around his thumb and she attempted to smile back at him. Nothing hurt, apart from the slight pain around her throat.   
  
“Hello, love. Does mama know you are here?” she asked the boy in a whisper and he shook his head at her.   
  
She flicked his nose with her finger, making the boy laugh his peals of laughter. The room around them was lit by the light streaming in from outside. She must have slept through the night into the late hours of the morning.   
  
“Was scared.” The boy spoke around the thumb in his mouth.   
  
“Why, love?” she asked gently, soothing the boy by rubbing his back.   
  
Rickon squirmed closer to her chest, burrowing his head on her chest.   
  
“Mama says you hur.” He whispered under her chin.   
  
Rickon has been attached to her ever since the past year or so. When her father began spending long hours at work, trying to revive his business, their mother’s attention towards them began dwindling. It wasn’t a big deal for Bran, who was well into his teenage years or Arya, who was never one to adhere to parental supervision to begin with. It had, however, affected Rickon, who was just three and felt his mother’s absence the most. She didn’t know how it began but before long, she was feeding, bathing and looking after the boy. He would often sleep with her and spend his waking hours with her.   
  
She leant down to brush a kiss on his hair.   
  
“Are you here to protect me, then?” she asked and felt him nod enthusiastically next to her heart.   
  
“Oh, thank you, my brave knight.” she said, tickling his sides until the boy began squirming in her grasp. Once she felt the sadness leave his face, she stopped and brushed his curls from his face, placing a tender kiss on his nose. The boy sighed contentedly and rested his head near the crook of her neck, playing with a strand of her hair.   
  
Her baby brother. Her little knight.   
  
She thought of the other knight. The one resting downstairs.   
  
She sighed, remembering bits of her dreams. She had dreamt of Ramsay, standing over her bruised and battered body, laughing maniacally as she tried dragging herself away from him. He kept stepping closer and closer to her, a dagger in one hand and a cylindrical object in the other. She was this close to dying when a man had shoved Ramsay aside, offered Sansa his hand, carried her to his mighty steed and rode away with her into the horizon. She didn’t remember much of what the man looked like but all she remembered was that the saviour in her dreams had scars running across the left side of his face.   
  
When she moved away from the bed, Rickon began whining. So she chose to carry him around as she brushed her teeth, washed her face, bathed and dressed for the day, covering the yellow bruises on her neck with a bit of powder. Once done, she stepped out of the room with Rickon perched on her arm. She went downstairs and left him in the kitchen with the cook, instructing them to feed the boy his breakfast. She had overheard from the house staff that Lord Clegane had gained consciousness early in the morning and seemed better today. She decided that she must go meet the man and grovel her apologies. Having taken care of her daily duties, she made her way to the room Lord Clegane was resting in the previous evening. She knocked on the door and was greeted by Mister Hermadur, dressed in a simple white shirt and trousers.   
  
He brightened when he saw her at the threshold and opened the door wide for her to enter. She curtsied before entering the room. The interior of the room was different from that evening. For one, the drapes were pulled open and the sunlight illuminated the beige decor. For another, the man lying dormant yesterday was now awake, resting with his back propped on pillows, his chest uncovered and his arm wrapped in gauze.   
  
She curtsied when she noticed the Lord.   
  
When she rose, she looked around the room with uncertainty, suddenly lost as to what she should be doing now. Mister Hermadur resolved her conflict.   
  
“Please, my Lady, have a seat.” he said, indicating towards the ornate chair that was placed next to the bed. She smiled graciously at the man, seating herself on the chair. Mister Hermadur took to the chaise that was towards the other side of the room.   
  
Sansa faced the man who saved her. The man still looked a little pale. It took a lot of her willpower not to stare at his bare chest.   
  
“My Lord. I wanted to apologize for the incident yesterday. I hope you will believe me when I say that I never intended for you to be harmed.” She said, her eyes downcast.   
  
The man stared at her with narrowed eyes, as if measuring her. He looked at her with so much scrutiny, it made her feel like he could see through her skull into her brain and he _knew_ the deepest, darkest secrets of her mind. She looked down at her lap, away from his searching gaze.   
  
“Are you marrying him, girl?” he said, bluntly.   
  
Sansa’s head whipped up and she stared at the man.   
  
“My Lord, please-” Mister Hermadur tried interrupting, only to be stopped when Lord Clegane raised a palm towards the man, his eyes still focused on Sansa.   
  
“Tell me, girl. Do you still intended on marrying that man?” he emphasized.  
  
“I- Uh- My-” she stammered and then closed her eyes and swallowed before answering again. “Yes, my Lord.” she answered simply.   
  
“Why?” he asked.   
  
Sansa straightened her spine, her hands resting on her palm. The fact that they shook was probably unnoticed by the other two occupants of the room. “I believe the union is in the best intentions of my family.”  
  
“The money is good, you mean?” He asked without preamble.   
  
Sansa felt like she had been slapped across the face. Did the man think she enjoyed being sold like a broodmare? Did he think she took pleasure from knowing she’d be married to an abomination, forced to lie with him even as every inch of her skin crawled under his touch? Did men think women loved not having a choice in their own fate?  
  
“Sandor-” Mister Hermadur tried interrupting again but Sansa spoke up before the Lord could dismiss his advisor again.   
  
“I do believe that the money can be used for securing a better future for my siblings.” she said truthfully. She wasn’t even going to be a recipient of the money. It was all going to be deposited in her family’s account. Her only reward from the union was going to be the knowledge that her sacrifice ensured that her siblings did not have to undergo such inhumanity.  
  
“How much has he offered?”  
  
She cleared her throat before revealing the amount. “Four hundred thousand dragons, my Lord.”  
  
She ducked her head in shame. If her brother had accepted his offer, House Frey would have invested a few more hundred thousand into Stark Industries but with every rejected proposal, their position in the Society declined to the level that now they had to acquiesce with whatever was offered to them.   
  
She did not see the glance that passed between the Lord and his advisor.   
  
“I would like to have a word with your mother, girl.”  
  
Sansa looked up at the man, but his attention was drawn to the window behind her, a hard look in his eyes. The Naive Sansa of yesteryears wouldn’t have known how to judge a man’s expression but she knows better now and she can sense the _revulsion_ in his eyes. She looked at Mister Hermadur and the man only smiled at her with pity in his eyes.   
  
She knew a dismissal when she saw one.   
  
Sansa stood and curtsied before leaving. She found her mother in the hall, instructing the sparse house staff with the task of cleaning the remnants of the previous evening. She informed her mother that the Lord Clegane was looking for her and ran off to her room.   
  
Once in her room, she closed the door, locked it and collapsed against the wood of the door.   
  
She crumpled in a heap on the floor, crying at the unfairness of the world.   
  
What gave the right to the Lord to judge her so? What gave him the right to ask her for her price as if she were a meat on display at a local butcher? What gave anyone the right to sell her away? What gave them a treat to dehumanize her?  
  
Men always assumed women were conditioned to bear brunts and pain. The pain of their cycle, of child bearing, birth, motherhood. A woman’s life was a series of pain, one after another. A cruelty of fate.   
  
There was no difference in her and those slaves sold in the market. She was a good, a piece of meat for men to ogle and purchase. Her worth was not in her kindness, in the goodness of her heart, in her intelligence. Her worth was in her body.   
  
For the umpteenth time, she wished for the strong arms and broad shoulders of her father to engulf her. She imagined him folding her in, encasing her in his warmth, shielding her from the cruelty of the world.   
  
He would never let this happen to his princess.   
  
For the umpteenth time, she wishes it was her, not him, whose heart gave away from the weight of the world.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 July 2019 - I have made some changes to the chapter. Sandor takes a few days to recuperate from his injury. The earlier version had him recovering the very next day because my dumbass has no idea how the human body works lol :P


	4. Strings of Subservience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Clegane has a conversation with the Stark women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking suggestions from previous chapter into account, I decided to keep a three day gap between Sandor losing consciousness and him waking up to full health. I went back and changed the chapter the very next day. I hope you guys will forgive the loopholes. 
> 
> Also wtf the amount of kudos and hits are astounding and I love y'all.

  
When he awoke that morning, the heaviness behind his eyes felt lesser than the times before.  
  
He knew he had regained consciousness a few times before. He remembered the first time he awoke, his throat feeling drier than Dorne. Maester Luwin had given him water and then he didn’t remember anything after. He remembers waking up more, exchanging a few words with Ray and then passing out again. It was all a blur. But now when he awoke, he felt much better.  
  
Caelan, his trusted companion was the first by his side who called Raymond and Irwin into the room. Between the three men and House Stark’s Maester, Sandor was informed of the full extent of his injuries and the circumstances surrounding it. He now had more stitches and scars to adorn his body, not that it mattered anymore. Maester luwin had instructed him to not strain himself for the coming days. Once the man finished his lengthy suggestions, which fell to deaf ears, he dismissed the Maester and asked his men to sit by his side and advise him.  
  
Sandor told Ray, Caelan and Irwin of what he saw and heard that evening. Irwin, ever ready to fight, declared that they must hunt the man down and teach him how to respect women.  
  
“This isn’t the West, Irwin. We cannot go around beating people. This isn’t our lands.” Raymond reminded the young man gently.  
  
Irwin crossed his arms over his chest and slumped where he was seated by Sandor’s feet.  
  
“What do you want to do, my Lord?” Caelan asked. As the youngest of his loyal advisors, Caelan was still learning about governance and trade and looked up to the men around him for ideas.  
  
“Old Ray here keeps telling me I need a wife.” he said, slapping his trusted advisor on the shoulder with his uninjured hand. “I could offer a higher bride price and take her instead of the man.”  
  
Irwin whooped at the prospect. “And get yourself a pretty little lass in the process, eh?” he asked with a wink.  
  
“I don’t even remember the last time I met a redhead anywhere near Lannisport.” Caelan said to no one in particular.  
  
“Are you sure about this, Sandor?” Ray asked and the look in his eyes made Sandor want to reconsider again.  
  
Perhaps he needed more time to think about this.  
  
“I think I want to rest for a little while more.” he said. “Check on me in an hour or so? I’d like to bath and eat something then.”  
  
The men nodded at him and left after patting and squeezing his shoulders. Left alone, Sandor closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again. The pain in his arm wasn’t flaring and he’d suffered worse before. He knew he’d be fine soon.  
  
He thought about the dreams he had been having while he was unconscious. He kept dreaming of the girl, kept thinking about her ordeal and what it must be like to marry a man who even before his vows had already conjured and informed you of the extent of his plans for you. The image of her from that evening kept floating before his eyes. She looked scared and terrified and young beyond the ten and nine years of her youth. Her eyes looked devoid of hope. He knew the look well. He wore it himself for the better part of his life.  
  
In marrying her, he could gain a lot. His business and influence would expand. He could gain new contacts and spread his operation beyond the West. He saw the marriage as a business venture. And the fact that he could relieve the girl of a monstrous man was only an added benefit.  
  
He didn’t expect much else from the girl. Mayhaps she could contribute to his household. The manor he planned on constructing needed to be decorated and looked after. She was raised by the standards set by high Society household. She must have received training in housekeeping, gardening and decoration. He wasn’t going to be able to dictate the colour and pattern of drapes. That could be taken care of by her. She could even guide his household staff.  
  
He wasn’t going to be a fool and expect any sort of love from the union.  
  
Any vestiges of hope of affection were wiped from his life when his face was shoved into the fireplace years ago.  
  
With his mind made up, Sandor drifted off to sleep, dreaming of red birds soaring high in the sky.  
  
He was awoken by Raymond who helped him to the bath. Steam rose from the tub filled with hot water and Sandor relaxed into his bath with Caelan scrubbing his back and cleaning his hair. Men in the Society were not open with their bodies. They often covered themselves up with as much, if not more, layers as women. Sandor held no such prejudice when it came to his body. He was a pitiful, defenseless thing once. It took him hours of hard labour to broaden his shoulder, chisel his abs and harden his thighs. There was nothing shameful in a body that was better shaped than the statue of the warrior himself. Besides, he didn’t have the pretentious sense of propriety that men in the Society held to such high esteem.  
  
Having bathed and dressed with assistance, Sandor broke his fast with Caelan and Raymond. Sandor let them know of his intent and instructed Caelan to have their things arranged. If the Starks accepted their proposal, Sandor would need to move back to Lannisport and prepare for the wedding.  
  
Sandor relaxed on the bed, sans shirt, talking to Ray. The man cautioned Sandor to the Stark Heiress’ mental health.  
  
“She was so apologetic, Sandor. She was attacked. Threatened. She should have been scared. But she was so sorry. She was sorry for being attacked, for being the reason that harm came to you. She carries too much weight on her shoulders.”  
  
Sandor hummed along. There wasn’t much he could say about it.  
  
“Pity what happened to the House, though. I had always heard tales of the honourable Eddard Stark but the men at the party had some very defaming things to say about him. The girl and her brother, Bran, they seem to have matured years beyond their age. Bran is mere ten and five but he already goes to his father’s workplace, trying to understand the family business”  
The man paused for a while and Sandor looked at him expectantly. If Raymond Hermadur, his oldest confidante was anything, it was a man who loved long monologues. There certainly was going to be one now that Sandor told him he wanted to marry a girl.  
  
“You have to be gentle with her, Sandor. She has suffered so much, they all have. A year ago, she was royalty, a girl who didn’t compromise for nothing and that had all changed in such a short time. I know you have a rather crass way of dealing with people - No! Don’t roll your eyes at me young man; I speak the truth - but you cannot speak to her that way. You must be, against the very fibre of your personality, gentle and calm with her. She is-”  
  
Their discussion was interrupted by a knock on the door. Raymond looked at him for permission and rose to open the door.  
  
Even before she entered the room, Sandor was assaulted by the smell of Lavender. The girl was dressed in a simple down of moss green. Her waist length hair ran smoothly down her back. Sandor was too busy observing her to hear what Raymond was saying. The girl sat next to his bed with poise and Sandor found himself being driven speechless by her beauty. Yet again. A small scar decorated her jawline and the bruises around her neck were almost invisible due to makeup but they only reminded Sandor of what he wanted to do. His memories were a little blurry but this was the first time he was seeing the girl so close with singular focus. She seemed too thin, her collarbones were jutting out prominently and her eyes were slightly hollowed. His protective instincts flared and he felt like raging at everyone in the keep for neglecting the girl’s health.  
  
The girl blushed when she noticed his bare chest. Even her ears were tantalizingly cherry red against her alabaster skin.  
  
“My Lord, I wanted to apologize for the incident yesterday. I hope you will believe me when I say that I never intended for you to be harmed.” the girl peeped, her eyes downcast, looking extremely scared and sorry.  
  
Why was she sorry? She was the one getting attacked. She wasn’t the one who stabbed him.  
  
He hated beating around the bush. She might have been trained to chirp pleasantries and apologize for things that she did not even do but Sandor wasn’t adept to such unnecessary shit.  
  
“Are you marrying him, girl?” he asked, straight to the point.  
  
The girl looked up at him with wide eyes.  
  
Raymond tried interrupting him but he stopped the man. The question he asked wasn’t too hard. Yes or no would do. He needed to know where she stood in this arrangement.  
  
She stammered, looking for an answer before settling with a simple “Yes, my Lord.”  
  
He didn’t understand why any girl would consent to marrying anyone who would want to harm them so.  
  
“Why?” he wondered aloud.  
  
“I believe the union is in the best intentions of my family.”  
  
The girl spoke like she had practiced that sentence many times before, like she had looked in the mirror and repeated it to herself until she believed every word.  
  
She was taught to chirp such empty sentences, regardless of what it meant for her or how it affected her. What the fuck was the Society doing to women? Did anyone value girls beyond the money they could fetch, even if it was at the cost of tethering the girl to an atrocious monstrosity for the rest of her life?  
  
“The money is good, you mean?”  
  
The girl looked at him like he was saying something horrible and wrong. It angered him more. As if whatever he was saying was worse than the sweet nothing her betrothed was telling her that evening. How was she more offended by him than by that man?  
  
Raymond tried interrupting him again but the girl spoke up before he could even stop the man.  
  
“I do believe that the money can be used for securing a better future for my siblings.”  
  
And how many times did she have to tell this to herself to make her believe in it? Did she even want anything for herself or was she just the sacrificial lamb in this all?  
  
How much was the man paying her for her to act so empty headed?  
  
“How much has he offered?”  
  
“Four hundred thousand dragons, my Lord.”  
  
So much pretense for such a meagre amount. He was spending thrice that in having his manor constructed. What a pity! Did all the women in the Society value their worth so low?  
  
Sandor exchanged a look with Ray, who looked just as appalled at the amount of money involved in the agreement.  
  
The girl clearly didn’t have her mind in the right place. Sandor needed to speak to the head of the household for having the matter settled. He looked at the gardens beyond the window of the room, trying to keep the anger in his gaze away from the girl.  
  
“I would like to have a word with your mother, girl.”  
  
He heard the click of the door as the woman left the room. Raymond was on him in an instant, chastising him for being so crude with the girl.  
  
“How could you speak to her like that? She looked close to tears at the end. To ask her her price like that! How could you be so daft?”  
  
Sandor turned to the man, trying to give him his signature glare. The old man only crossed his hands over his chest, standing up to the young Lord before him.  
  
His glare could make a man piss his pants but Raymond Hermadur has raised him since even before his balls dropped.  
  
“Don’t look at me like that, boy. Give that glare to your men who didn’t have to teach you how to shave your own beard. I raised you better than a brute, Sandor Duncan Clegane.”  
  
Sandor rolled his eyes as the man continued his chastisement. A knock on the door interrupted the old man’s lecture.  
  
“You asked to see me, Lord Clegane?” Lady Stark asked, moving into the room. Even the girl’s mother blushed at his bare state and Sandor was left to wonder just how much propriety men had in the North.  
  
“Yes, my Lady. Please have a seat.” Sandor said, throwing a look at Raymond as the woman made her way to the chair.  
  
_See! I do have manners._  
  
“How much do you know of your daughter’s intended, Lady Stark?” he asked, breaching the subject with much more care than he gave the woman before her.  
  
“House Bolton is a known house in the North, my Lord. They have forging industries. A lot of the product from Stark Industries were sent to them for processing. Though our affiliations were strictly business related, with the union we hope to-”  
  
“I did not ask you about the House or their trade. I want to know what you know about the _man_ your daughter is supposed to sleep with and procreate with.” he said, needing to stop the woman’s chirping. Clearly, she was a great influence on her daughter.  
  
The woman stammered before she spoke with resolution. “Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay was baseborn but rose to prominence due to his, uh, his talents. He appears to be very, um, enamoured with our Sansa.”  
  
What a white lie. “Enamoured? Is that why he was threatening to rape her, my Lady? Is that how men charm women in the North?” he asked, enraged.  
  
The woman gaped at him for a whole minute before sitting upright, her spine straight. “We- we have no other way, my Lord.”  
  
Sandor was vexed with rage. Willing to submit someone to abuse was atrocious, no matter the stakes.  
  
“If you do not mind us asking, my Lady, what is the um, depth of struggle Stark Industries is in?” Raymond asked gently by his side.  
  
“My Lord has witnessed firsthand how far our House has fallen. I do not feel there is much to hide.” the woman took a deep breath before continuing. “The Late Robert Baratheon and my hus- Lord Stark were childhood friends. Lord Stark believed he could trust Lord Baratheon and the latter persuaded Lord Stark into launching a joint project of Stark Industries and Baratheon Corporations. After everything was revealed about Lord Baratheon’s son and his parentage, Baratheon Corporations shut down and all the money that was put into the joint venture went to waste. Perhaps we had invested too much into the venture but my husband was a trusting man, never saw evil in anyone. Believed everyone was good like him.” the woman gave a mirthless laugh before continuing. “My husband tried to take loans to gain some money. He even sold some shares of the Industry. One thing led to another and the debt piled to millions.”  
  
“If the debt is in millions, why settle for four hundred thousand?” Ray wondered aloud.  
  
“We do not hope for any House to invest millions in us, Mister Hermadur. With few hundred thousands, we could work on the smaller projects that we have, which are stalled at the moment. We could use the money from those to fund other projects and in a few years’ time, we hope we can start paying off the debts.”  
  
“And where does your daughter’s welfare fall into any of this?” Sandor asked.  
  
Lady Stark winced. “We never anticipated that Sansa would have to make the sacrifice. It pains me that my daughter may have to sacrifice love and happiness for our well being.” she confessed.  
  
The woman’s eyes were still downcast. Sandor spared a glance at Ray who nodded at him discreetly.  
  
“My Lady, what if I offered more money and asked for your daughter’s hand?” Sandor offered.  
  
The woman’s head snapped up and she looked between Sandor and Raymond. “My Lord, I don’t understand - uh - what -”  
  
“I could offer you twice of what House Bolton is doing. Eight hundred thousand. And I can lend you more in time, if needed. I know you have offered 25% of the shares for whosoever marries your daughter but I would propose to raise that to 40% given that I am offering to invest whatever amount is required. As for your daughter, I can assure you I would never harm-”  
  
“I-I accept, my Lord.”  
  
Sandor staggered at the sudden response. Eager, it appeared.  
  
“Well then, my Lady,” Ray said, sounding just as astonished as Sandor was. “When would you want the wedding to take place?”  
  
“As soon as possible, Mister Hermadur, a month, at most. Ideally, I would want the marriage to take place sooner but there are protocols that our Houses have to follow.”  
  
“Such as?” Sandor asked, curious.  
  
“First, we would have to send emissaries to House Bolton, declining their offer. Then we would have to send out invitations. Then we would have to make the necessary preparations. The dresses have to be made and the venues decided.”  
  
“And all of this can be done in a month’s time?” Sandor asked.  
  
“It is difficult. But we will have to do it.” she said, resolutely.  
  
He knew House Stark was in trouble but the eagerness with which the House was willing to sell its daughter’s off and get her money in return was downright painful to watch. Around him, Ray and Lady Stark discussed more details of the nuptials but Sandor was lost in his own thoughts. The fact that no opinions of the bride herself were taken, did not escape his notice and her lack of involvement and willingness in this whole process did not bode well with him.  
  
Sometimes it shocked him how nefarious the Society was. It grilled their women into submission, so much so, they were ready to bow down before an abusive partner as long as the greater good of their House was fulfilled. All that money, all that extravagance and these people still behaved like savages.  
  
When he had spoken to her earlier in the day, he had assumed that she said some say over her future and was the one who was insistent on marrying Lord Ramsay. But given everything he had heard just now and witnessing how eager Lady Stark was in ushering her daughter out of the house, he was confronted with the notion that the girl was nothing more than a puppet.  
  
A puppet whose strings were firmly in the hands of those who sought the survival of their business as taking precedence over their daughter’s potentially abusive spouse.  
  
A realization hit him in the gut then.  
  
Those strings, the ones that controlled her and forced her to behave and act according to how the Society wanted her to, were going to be in his command now.  
  
He would _own_ her. That’s what the Bolton Bastard had said too, hadn’t he? That he ‘owned’ her. The strings of her subservience would be handed to him and he would be allowed to _play_ with her as he liked.  
  
And Sandor Clegane wasn’t sure if he liked that prospect.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story. I wrote 10 chapters and realized I was not happy with the progress of the story so I erased six chapters and began reworking on the whole thing. Which means that now I only have another chapter's content and the rest is a blank slate fml. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up on Monday or Tuesday. 
> 
> Have a great weekend!


	5. A New Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa hears of the inevitable and an eventful luncheon follows.

  
Patterns dictated her life.  
  
She was among the first to wake in the house. She would bathe and dress and then take over the household chores. Once she ensured that the household staff had the first meal of the day under preparation, she would take over the cumbersome task of waking up her youngest brother. Rickon would whine and thrash and it would take her an hour to cajole him out of bed and into the bath and take him to the Maester for his lessons. Then she would have to find Arya from some obscure corner of the manor, making sure the girl had some food in her stomach before she bolted off to resume whatever it was she was doing. Bran and Mother always had work to do of their own and Sansa had to send their breakfast up to their rooms. With everyone looked after, she would sit with the household staff and break her fast. Then she would start with cleaning and after that, preparations for lunch.  
  
With their storage in depletion, they relied mostly on grains and pulses that did not perish easily and were stored in plenty. Meat was reserved for special occasions and the party the week before had already claimed a sizeable portion of their stack. With Lord Clegane and his men in the house, she would have to ask the cook to prepare a farcical lunch which would cost their reserves dearly. She and the head cook were standing in a corner and discussing prospective menus when her sister unceremoniously dragged her aside.  
  
“Arya!” she squeaked “what do you think you are doing? Let me go! I have work to do!”  
  
“Oh do shut up. I need to speak to you.” the girl said, pushing her sister into an abandoned room and locking the door behind her back.  
  
Once Arya relented her hold on her, Sansa placed her hands on her hips in perfect imitation of the posture her mother adopted when chastising her children.  
  
“And what is the reason for this behaviour, may I ask?”  
  
“You are to marry Clegane!” the girl declared  
  
“W-who told you that?”  
  
Arya fiddled with the ties of her breeches, not meeting Sansa’s eyes. “I may have been eavesdropping on mother when she was talking to Maester Luwin in her solar.”  
  
In the shock of the moment, Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to be mad at her sister for spying on their own mother.  
  
“What did you hear exactly?” she asked and Arya glowed at the prospect of sharing her secret with her sister, who for the first time, didn’t yell at her for listening to a private conversation.  
  
“She said that man was offering double of what Boltons were and that she wanted you married at the earliest. She said she wants to do it in a month.”  
  
Sansa walked to the nearest thing she could find and sat on an abandoned stool.  
  
It hit her like a punch to the stomach.  
  
She had resigned herself to the fate of a pawn, a piece of cyvasse bring pushed from one corner to the other on command. She forced herself to accept that she was to marry Lord Ramsay, that no matter how much he hit her, as long as he agreed to help her father’s company, she would bite her lip and not protest. It had taken her time but she had accepted it. But now she was being pushed elsewhere, in the ownership of someone she knew nothing about, other than the fact that he was new to the Society and was wealthy.  
  
With the Boltons, she knew what to expect. Everyone in the North heard rumours of the screams that echoed through the halls of Dreadfort. She knew what was in store for her.  
  
With Lord Clegane, she knew nothing. She was going to walk into an abyss and had to greet whatever evil existed there with open arms.  
  
Arya, meanwhile, was completely oblivious to her sister’s quandary.  
  
“-ave heard he is the strongest fighter in the west! When the Western Houses collectively took away Lannister property, it was him who spearheaded the campaign and met Kevan and Tywin Lannister’s soldiers on field. It’s said that he looked so fearsome that half the Lannister soldiers shat themselves and left the battle even before he started. I have heard his biceps are as thick as trunks. Are they, Sansa? Do you think he can crush a skull with his bare hands? I bet he could. Gorge a man’s intestines right out of his mouth. I wish I could train under him. Lommy said his face was burnt in a battle! Can you imagine? Such brute strength.”  
  
Sansa’s heart stopped beating.  
  
What if she was trading one monster for another? Sure, he had rescued her from Ramsay but there was nothing that would stop him from becoming violent with her if he wanted to. Given the amount of money he was paying as Bride Price, he could beat her, abuse her, torture her and she’d be _indebted_ to him. His money would help her family much more than the Freys and Boltons could have ever hoped for and he could use that leverage against her. She doubted she’d be able to come back home if she ever wanted to leave him. At least Dreadfort Keep was close to Winterfell keep. A three day journey, to the most. But Lannisport was miles and miles away. Two week’s ride, perhaps three. She wouldn’t be able to escape him even if she wanted.  
  
The way that he spoke to her, curt and rude, showed he did not have an ounce of care towards her. If he was so mean before the wedding, she could only imagine how much worse it would be after.  
  
She felt her chest tighten, her throat clog and her breaths become painful.  
  
“Are you alright?” Arya asked.  
  
She nodded at her sister, trying to smile. She did not want her siblings to be worried about her. She wanted to guard their innocence for as long as she could.  
  
“You’re not happy about this, are you?” Arya asks, her voice a low whisper.  
  
Arya and Sansa have never been the closest of sisters. Arya was barely three when she decided she hated being a girl and took to her brothers better than her sister. It didn’t matter to Sansa, who found a sibling in her friend Jeyne. That however, did not stop them from being at odds with each other. From Arya flinging peas at her during luncheons to Sansa teasing her sister about her crooked stitches in lessons, the sisters always had their moments. Things changed only with the loss of their father. Ned Stark was a believer in the bond of a pack and his teachings only seemed to take root in his absence. In grief and mourning, the sisters set their differences aside and became closer than they ever were.  
  
Sansa found herself unable to reply to her sister.  
  
Arya moved closer to her, placing a hand over hers.  
  
“I wish you didn’t have to do this.” Arya confessed.  
  
“Me too.” Sansa said with a resigned sigh.  
  
A sniffle alerted Sansa to the fact that her sister was crying. She looked up to see Arya’s shoulders shaking as fat tears made their way down her face. The little girl of ten looked angry and sad, equal parts. Sansa murmured nonsensical soothing words and bought her sister closer to her body, folding her within her warmth. She rubbed her hands across the girl’s back, kissing her hair.  
  
Beneath her chin, she heard her sister complain that it was _not fair, not fair, not fair_ and Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to disagree.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Her mother called them all to her room around midday, an hour before lunch.  
  
They sat around the fireplace with their mother sitting in the ornate chair which their father once occupied.  
  
“I have some news for you all.” she said in a neutral voice. Arya and Sansa shared a subtle glance across the room.  
  
“Lord Clegane has offered to marry Sansa and I have accepted.” she said, her gaze solely focused on Sansa, who knew better than to show any emotion about the development.  
  
“He has offered to pay 800,000 dragons. I plan on arranging the wedding within a month.”  
  
The air in the room grew so thick that a knife would have a hard time cutting through it. Rickon looked confused, like he didn’t know if he should be sad or angry. Arya looked angry and Bran concerned. Sansa’s face was the most haunting. It was blank. Maester Luwin sat next to their mother, his face twisted in sagely remorse.  
  
“What about House Bolton’s offer?” Bran asked.  
  
“Lord Clegane and I will send emissaries to decline their offer tomorrow.”  
  
“Will you ask Lord Bolton to reprimand his son for his actions towards Sansa?” he asked.  
  
Catelyn Stark shifted in her chair uncomfortably.  
  
“No.” she offered.  
  
Sansa closed her eyes briefly. It hurt her that no one was going to stand up for her but then again, in the light of everything else, she shouldn’t have expected otherwise.  
  
“Why not? He hurt Sansa!” Arya yelled.  
  
“Arya.” Sansa warned. Arya glared at her sister and then her mother and huffed at their stupidity and cowardice and crossed her arms over her bony chest, resigning to remain silent for the rest of the conversation. Sansa, for her part, did not want her family to fight over her.  
  
“Because their business relationship with Stark Industries is very important. We cannot afford their scorn." The woman took a deep breath before schooling her expression and continuing. "We are to have lunch with Lord Clegane and his men in an hour. I expect you all to be there in time.”  
  
A chorus of “yes, mother.” rang out in the room.  
  
Arya was the first to leave, muttering obscenities under breath. Bran left after with Rickon’s hand in his. Sansa was almost at the door when her mother called her back to the room.  
  
“You know I wouldn’t do anything that was not in the best interest of the family, right, Sansa? It pains me so much to have you separated from me so soon. If it were up to me, I’d have you here, in my arms for the rest of my life. Please tell me you know that, my darling?” her mother asked, cupping her daughter’s jaw.  
  
Sansa wanted to rage and yell but resigned to merely nod at her mother, her brimming eyes downcast.  
  
“I didn’t know your father when I married him. I thought I was meant for Brandon and after the fever took him, I lost all hope for love. Ned certainly wasn’t what I wanted in a husband. Too quiet, too sullen, too broody. Our first few months were rough but I found love and happiness in the union. You never know what life brings you, Sansa.” she said and placed a tender kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “I will pray to the Mother to bless your marriage.”  
  
The two women held each other for a while. When her mother pulled away, Sansa made her way out of the room determined to not have her mother look into her eyes and find the empty void of her soul within them.  
  
She dressed herself in a lilac gown and Jeyne arranged her hair such that a few strands could be pulled in front in an effort to cover the yellowing bruises.  
  
When she walked down into the dining room, the massive table was already occupied by her mother, Lord Clegane, Mister Hermadur, the two men from the previous evening and Bran. Her mother sat at the head of the table, Mister Hermadur to her right and the two men next to him. Lord Clegane sat to her mother’s left. Bran was seated next to the Clegane men. Mister Hermadur and her mother seemed to be in deep conversation with Lord Clegane listening to them intently. Bran was speaking to the man seated next to him while the other man just fiddled with the several cutlery in front of him. When the occupants of the room noticed her standing by the door awkwardly, they paused their conversations. The silence was broken by the Lord pushing his chair away, the legs of the chair complaining loudly against the floor. He rose and rounded his chair, coming to the one next to his, pulling it away from the table.  
  
He held the frame of the chair in his hand, looking at her expectantly.  
  
Sansa moved to the chair, placing herself on it as the man resumed his position on his own seat. She missed the look of approval Mister Hermadur shot at the Lord.  
  
Rickon came tumbling down to the room soon after. He walked up to the lord without preamble and scowled at the man.  
  
“Yous in my seat!” he said, stomping his feet on the ground.  
  
“It’s alright, Rickon. Why don’t you sit on my right today, darling?” she asked the boy who shot a glare at the Lord and reluctantly climbed on his new place.  
  
Arya came to the room, in a grey gown for a change, and sat next to Bran.  
  
“I believe introductions are in order.” Catelyn Stark declared before smiling at each of her children, “This is my eldest daughter, Sansa” Sansa ducked her head at the look the Clegane men shot at her when her name was called out, “My son, Bran and my younger daughter Arya” Bran smiled at the Lord and Mister Hermadur and Arya scowled at her plate, “and my youngest, Rickon.” the boy shot a toothy grin at Mister Hermadur who chuckled at the boy.  
  
Mister Hermadur cleared his throat. “This is Lord Sandor Clegane the First” the man in question looked impassively around the room, “I am Raymond Hermadur, this is Irwin Hunter and Caelan Reid.” the man named Irwin merely nodded at her mother while Caelan smiled at Sansa. Mister Hunter looked older, around the age of his Lord while Mister Reid looked close to her own age.  
  
Her mother signalled to the staff to bring in the food and soon the table was filled with dishes of various size and proportion and the smell of herbs wafted around the room. With the table filled, Catelyn Stark spoke again.  
  
“We are gathered here today because Lord Clegane has offered to wed my lovely daughter Sansa. My Lord, I hope you know that House Stark is bestowing you with the most precious jewel we have to offer and we hope you cherish its worth just as we have for nine and ten years.”  
  
“I am honoured, my Lady.” the Lord in question replied in his gravelly voice.  
  
“Let us feast to celebrate!” her mother said cheerfully, signalling to the house staff to serve the food.  
  
Voices began filling the room with the staff moving around and offering the dishes to the guests. Sansa’s attention was drawn to Rickon, who piled on too much meat and not enough vegetables. She took some off the meat off his plate onto hers and asked the staff to serve him more vegetables. She talked him through his tantrums, cutting everything on his plate to bite size so that he could eat on his own. She turned to her own plate, eating on what little she had taken off of Rickon’s plate.  
  
“You need to eat more.” a voice beside her said.  
  
Sansa turned to find the man in question stuffing his mouth with duck confit. His own plate was piled high with meat.  
  
“I am not hungry, my Lord.” she said in a chipped voice.  
  
“You’re all bones and skin. Stop pecking at the food like a damn bird and eat more” he insisted.  
  
Was this his special way of telling her that she was too skinny and unattractive?  
  
She looked around, trying to find out if anyone else on the table had heard the humiliating remark. Apparently they hadn’t.  
  
She tried to push the humiliation aside and tried making conversation with the man. She chose to put her septa’s teaching in good use. She cleared her throat to grab his attention.  
  
“Are you feeling well this day, my Lord? I hope your arm isn’t bothering you too much.”  
  
“Had worse.” the man replied after taking a healthy sip of his wine.  
  
How was she supposed to make a conversation if the man only ever spoke three words at most? The only time he spoke full sentences were when he wanted to mock her.  
  
“Have you explored the gardens in the estate, my Lord?”  
  
“Not much.”  
  
“I hope you will, my Lord. The garden is lush and beautiful this time of the year.”  
  
The man a non-commital grunt as a response.  
  
Sansa felt her patience wearing thin.  
  
“Have you seen our library, my Lord? We have some of the finest collection of first edition books of folklore of the North. My grandmother was very fon-”  
  
“Do you take me as a man who reads much folklore?” the man asked, his knife and fork in his hand, annoyance written clear as day on his face.  
  
“M-my Lord, I, uh-”  
  
“Do you always chirp so much, little bird?” He sneered at her, his face twisted in displeasure.  
  
Sansa felt her throat tighten. From the corner of her eyes, she could feel Mister Hermadur look at them with concern.  
  
She had only wanted to make idle conversation with the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. But if he didn’t want to talk to her and found her to be ‘chirping’ incessantly, she didn’t want to raise his ire. She would do as he asked. He was paying enough to revive her family business and save her siblings’ future, she had to remind herself for the thousandth time. He owned her and if he wanted her to keep quiet, she would abide.  
  
“I am sorry, my Lord.” Sansa whispered, sitting back and focusing on her food.  
  
Everything on her plate suddenly looked unappetising and she felt like throwing up at the prospect of eating. The pushed the food around with her fork, waiting for everyone else to finish their food so that she could go back to her room. Rickon distracted her sometimes, asking her help to refill his glass of water or to cut the food into smaller pieces. Other than that, she spent the remainder of the lunch fiddling with her food and staring at her lap. The conversation around her - between her mother and Mister Hermadur talking about trade in the north, Bran and Mister Reid talking about horse riding and Arya and Rickon bickering across the table - made her feel lonely and empty.  
  
She found herself swallowing painfully several times during the two excruciating hours, trying to keep the tears at bay.  
  
It wouldn’t do her good to cry on the dinner table.  
  
Not when she had to sit next to the bitter man for the rest of her life.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be uploading chapters more frequently because I will travel to India in the third week of August. I will be travelling to five different cities in the span of three weeks and I don't think I will be able to write or upload anything. And I don't want to keep the story lagging because I am writing it at a good pace now. Since I want to complete the story by 20th August so be prepared for getting bombarded with uploads lol.
> 
> Few things I thought I should clarify:  
> 1\. Clegane Manor is on the outskirts of Lannisport as is the center of Sandor's business activities.  
> 2\. The people in the table obviously knew who Sansa was but a lot of the people did not know who the Clegane men so I thought I'd include an introductory note. 
> 
> With regards to age:
> 
> Ray- 58  
> Catelyn - 42  
> Irwin - 33  
> Sandor - 31  
> Caelan - 20  
> Sansa - 19  
> Bran - 15  
> Arya - 9  
> Rickon - 4 
> 
> Next up - A trip to Dreadfort.


	6. The Company You Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Dreadfort Keep  
> Part 2: Winterfell Keep 
> 
> Trigger warning- Reference to past child abuse and past sexual abuse. Nothing gory. Just brief mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend on keeping this fic centered around SanSan (obviously) and the POV will be altering between the two characters. However, I might add few other POVs. 
> 
> The first part is Irwin's POV and the latter part is a mix of Caelan's and Sandor's POV. 
> 
> Speaking of a different POV, ch 9 is going to be v v unexpected. wink wink.

  
Irwin tugged his doublet on, fastening the ties of the garment one by one.  
  
Every tug pulled at the scars on his back, reminding him of the way that wench had sought purchase on his back and arms as he pounded into her the previous evening. The only thing good about this Northern tundra was the ravishing, insatiable women it had in its brothels.  
  
Straightening his clothes, he looked at himself in the mirror. He smirked at his own reflection. His Ma would have been proud. He looked like a proper gentleman in the traditional breeches and doublet of House Clegane. He remembered how itchy and uncomfortable he was the first time he donned it few years ago. Now, the heavy, ornate garments felt like a second skin.  
  
He grabbed his dagger and secured it around the waist.  
  
On his way out, Irwin bought fruits and bread and cheese from the Inn’s front desk. They had been on the road for three days now and hopefully by midday, they’d be at the Dreadfort Keep. They would have arrived much sooner if they were riding day and night but they took a slow pace, resting at Inns through the night.  
  
Irwin greeted Raymond, Rodrik Cassel and the other four Stark men in the yard and they resumed their journey eastward.  
  
While south of the Neck, all the kingdoms had been experiencing hot summer, the North had just hit spring. Vegetation was minimal. Wild trees and bushes grew abundant but there was nothing that could sustain hunger. The soil was piss poor for plantation, so unlike the thick soil of their lands that seemed to breath life.  
  
When he had gone out to Wintertown, he had spent hours in several eateries, inns and taverns. The menu was minimal and basic. People everywhere were too thin, too pale. This place could certainly do with a little life and sunshine.  
  
Like that girl Sandor was supposed to marry. She was too quiet, too withdrawn. Irwin knew that wasn’t Sandor’s type. Then again, what the fuck even was his type? Not like he had scores of willing women waiting to lay with him. He usually took whoever agreed to spend one night with him. Life didn’t give Sandor Clegane a face that would garner him a lot of options when it came to choosing his lovers.  
  
Irwin and Sandor had been friends since their green days, when Sandor was a lanky tall fellow getting picked on and Irwin was his bulky older friend always standing up for his sorry ass. Irwin had been there when Sandor’s bastard brother and father had died and Sandor had inherited a large patch of land. Sandor had always been a smart fella, knew just what to do with the land, which crop to capitalize on, whom to employ and how to sniff lies. Before long, Sandor had more land, more money, a trading business, more wealth, more fame and lo and behold, a position in the Society. The position, of course, meant fuckall to any of them. It was a load of crap but it helped business so they adjusted to the shenanigans of the Society. The best part was that through it all, Sandor had been himself. No trace of vanity or pride. Just good ole grumpy, moody, snarky Sandor Clegane.  
  
Raymond rode ahead of the batch with the Cassel man white the other four guards and Irwin rode at a more leisurely pace.  
  
He didn’t know what to expect of today.  
  
He imagines that if it were him, and if he were to hear that he had been one-upped by another man, out-bidded by another man, he would have been pissed. Then again, if it were him, and his offer had been turned down because his son was a right proper arse, he would thank the people for informing him, beat the fuck out of his son and go to sleep.  
  
Irwin’s job, as Sandor’s advisor, was to have an attentive ear. He went to crowded places, blended with the people, paid for their drink, got them loose lipped and then collected information. And of all the things he’d heard about this Roose Bolton, he didn’t know which was worse. Some said the man had an underground chamber of torture, some claimed he skinned people alive, some said the Boltons were cannibals and others claimed that screams of women echoed the halls of Dreadfort at every hour. It could, of course, have been an exaggeration but it was never a bad thing to be a little cautious.  
  
And to think it was all over that slip of a girl.  
  
He could see why one would be charmed by her. She was obviously beautiful. How many women could claim to have such fair skin, such blue eyes and such a unique colour of hair? Women dyed their hair with chemicals and it would come out orange and ugly but the girl just walked around with ruby red hair swaying with every step. She was young and attractive. One had to be blind to not see it.  
  
But she looked so sad. All the time. Like she had the life sucked out of her. Those empty eyes looked haunted. No woman, especially not as young as her, should look so withdrawn.  
  
They arrived at the Keep, the guard let them in after Cassel had a word with them. They were asked by a steward to wait in the reception hall. They were served wine and bread by wenches who refused to meet their eye. Irwin pretended not to notice the bruises that littered the body of the women before them.  
  
After a few minutes, without much fanfare, Roose Bolton entered the room with his son.  
  
The man was tall and bald, a salt and pepper beard covering his jaws. His son was much shorter, square jaws, curly hair, stumped nose. If it weren’t for the similarity in the shape of their eyes, the men would have seemed to be unrelated.  
  
Roose Bolten’s eyes narrowed to the crest stitched on Irwin’s doublet.  
  
“The rumours are true, then.” the man said, taking a seat across from them.  
  
Rodrik Cassel cleared his throat, speaking in a clear voice. “On behalf of House Stark, we regret to inform you that we seek to sever the ties you proposed to create with your son, Ramsay Bolton and Lady Catelyn Stark’s eldest daughter, Sansa Stark. We earnestly hope this change in arrangement will not alter the long history the two Houses have shared.”  
  
Bolton Sr sat straight on his chair, his eyes focused on the man in front of him. The only indication he heard the man was the curt nod he gave at the end.  
  
“The offer was extended for the benefit of House Stark. Everyone knows they needed us more than we needed them.” the man said and the boy next to him slumped in his chair snickered.  
  
“As that may be, my Lord, recent developments have begged reconsideration.”  
  
“And how much did House Clegane offer you for making this ‘reconsideration’?”  
  
Irwin knew very well what was to happen now. Sandor has asked them not to interfere unless their name was explicitly called. He smirked as he noticed Raymond straighten next to him.  
  
“What House Clegane has or has not offered House Stark is not the concern of anyone else.” Raymond spoke up. The Bolton men’s head snapped towards them. Roose Bolton opened his mouth to retaliate but Raymond spoke up before he could get a peep out of his mouth.  
  
“It was also Lord Sandor’s insistence that you be reminded that the slight caused to the future Lady of the House Clegane will not be forgotten, or forgiven. House Clegane prides itself for the battles it has fought, for the ones it has won and lost alike. We fight armed men in open fields, not corner women in private residences and threaten bodily harm.” he said, with a pointed stare towards the Bolton heir who at least had the grace of sitting up straight when being spoken to.  
  
“You have no proof!” the boy screamed petulantly, his father’s arm shooting out in an instant to stop the boy from launching himself at Raymond. Irwins hand casually drifted towards the dagger concealed by his breeches.  
  
Raymond levelled the boy with a glare that sent the elder Bolton squirming in his seat.  
  
“Mayhaps Lord Bolton needs to be reminded that Lord Clegane has great correspondence with the Citadel; helped with the restoration of their library the previous year. I am certain that the Citadel would be very interested to hear of the reports of missing women around this Keep. Let us not, in haste, forget what happens to heirs who are accused of rape and murder. Remind me again, my Lord, how difficult is is to acquire an heir?” Raymond said, words clearly meant for the Senior but his glare still locked on the Junior.  
  
Irwin noticed Roose Bolton swallow audibly. His information was correct then. Ramsay Bolton was not an ideal heir but given that Roose Bolton had none to carry the mantle of the House, he had to resort to legitimizing the son of a whore he had spent a night with. It had caused an uproar in the Society and Lord Bolton had to spend thousands to conciliate people into accepting his newfound son. Ramsay, however, had grown a thirst for violence and subordination and there was no money sufficient enough to spread rumours about the horrors of what happened in the Keep.  
  
Irwin managed to hide his smile behind a hand as Roose Bolton visibly paled. The Stark men beside him looked overwrought and began nervously fidgeting in their seat.  
  
“I am sorry for any offense caused to House Clegane or House Stark. I would like to invite you men to share meat and bread with me this noon-” Bolton Senior tried to placate but Raymond cut him off.  
  
“And we would like to respectfully decline your offer.” he said, standing up. Irwin followed in his wake, as did the rest of the Stark men. “We would like to get an early start on the journey back. Thank you for agreeing to meet us.” he said, moving towards the exit, the rest of the men following behind.  
  
They were almost out when the old man turned to the Bolton son and father. “We look forward to your presence at the wedding.” he said before striding out.  
  
Irwin would have laughed at the speechlessness of the Elder Bolton if it weren’t for the Bolton Heir’s facial expression.  
  
Irwin felt the hair in the nape of his neck rise as a look of pure malice crossed the young man’s face. The boy looked like he wasn’t going to let this go anytime soon and the evil foreboding made Irwin’s hair stand.  
  
And Irwin wasn’t the kind to ignore a bad omen when he felt one.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sandor was seated on a bench in the garden with Caelan, who couldn’t stop gushing about the girl whom he had his eyes on for years accepting his offer for marriage.  
  
“She’s too beautiful, Sandor. And strong too. Could knock me down with a punch. Makes my knees go weak.” the man said with the most lovesick expression on his face.  
  
Sandor laughed at one of the strongest fighters in his company being ruined to mush by his lady love. He was glad that the men he knew were finding love and happiness. Only a small part of him felt envy. _Small._  
  
“I think I might throw up if you talk about how perfect Ina is again.” Sandor said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“But she is, Sandor! She’s perfect!” the man beamed.  
  
“Where is the man who thundered down the battlefield so hard that the men of House Osborn surrendered in half a day?” he asked, feigning remorse.  
  
“Whipped by his lady love.” the man declared, his chest puffed with pride.  
  
Sandor laughed and patted the young man on his shoulder. “I am happy for you, Caelan. Ina and you make a worthy couple.”  
  
Caelan blushed at his Lord’s appreciation. He had looked up to Sandor since he was a boy of ten, when he was weak and small and bruised and saw a man whose face looked like the stuff of nightmares but one with a gentle heart who opened his door and shared his meal with a runaway boy. Sandor had, in more ways than one, saved Caelan and if it weren’t for his generosity, Caelan knows he’d have perished a long time ago.  
  
Caelan has seen the man accept stranded and battered people with open arms. Everyone in the vicinity of Lannisport knew that the Clegane Manor had its doors open for anyone looking for work and a meal. Sandor lets anyone stay in the servant’s quarter for three days and provides them with water, clothing, food and covers. Those who choose to stay beyond that are offered menial jobs for which they are paid and provided for. Sandor looks after his house staff like they are his equals, not subordinates. Caelan knew the world saw a monster in him, mayhaps because of his face or his battle prowess but Caelan knows him better than that.  
  
And the one thing he knows for certain is that no one deserves love more than his Lord. He doesn’t let on, but he prays everyday, prays the best he can to whichever God who listens, that Lady Sansa forgive his Lord for his lack of manners and see him for the goodness of soul he hides within.  
  
“I know it is not my place to say this, my Lord. But I hope you and Lady Sansa find happiness. I- I know things don’t seem so, um, good now but I truly hope you both find it in each other to care for one another.” Caelan said, swallowing a lump in his throat. Men don’t often speak about such things but he really wants his Lord to know that he cares for his well being.  
  
Sandor gave a resigned sigh and looked out at the garden in front of him. The garden Sansa had asked him to visit. The garden he couldn’t fully explore because of Ramsay fucking Bolton assaulting her.  
  
“Let’s hope so, Caelan.” he said in a low voice.  
  
After the disastrous luncheon the previous week, Ray had given Sandor a good earful. Called him an _ungrateful arse_ and a _daft fool hell bent on ruining every good thing that walks into your life_.  
  
Perhaps he had been a little short with the girl. She was only trying to make conversation. But he’d been so frustrated with the empty courtesies she extended to him. The things she told him were clearly taught and practiced, nothing genuine about them. He hated that. He’d much rather have a silent company than one that chirped words they didn’t mean in the least.  
  
He would have apologized but the girl never came before him. Whenever he saw her, she was busy with household duties. During dinner and lunch, she’d sit sandwiched between her sister and her youngest brother, too busy preventing the former from glaring at Sandor or too busy feeding the latter. She never sought private audience with him and he didn’t know where her rooms were to even ask to meet her.  
  
She spoke to Ray though, who took every opportunity to remind Sandor what a _delightfully wonderful woman_ she was. She even spoke to Caelan, thanking him for being a companion for her brother Bran.  
  
With him, she kept her answers short, her face impassive and her head bowed.  
  
Like she was scared of him.  
  
_And whose fault is that, dog?_  
  
A young boy ran towards their direction just then, curtsying and speaking between panting breaths.  
  
“My Lord…..The men…..they’re back.”  
  
Sandor and Caelan were on their feet at once, passing the boy after thanking him.  
  
The Stark men, with Ray and Irwin in tow had just entered the reception hall. Maester Luwin and Lady Stark were making their way downstairs right behind them.  
  
“Everything alright?” Sandor asked, looking at Ray.  
  
Cassel spoke before Ray could. “We have spoken to the Lord Bolton and his Heir. I tried not to be hostile with them-”  
  
Ray interrupted him. “But Lord Bolton brought up the name of House Clegane and I found it as an obligation to remind him of the offense caused to the Lady Sansa and House Clegane, by extension.”  
  
The men looked at each other with mildly concealed contempt. They looked like they had been having this conversation for some time now.  
  
“I don’t believe it was wise to raise the ire of Lord Bolton. He has, after all, had long standing business with Stark Industries.”  
  
“Aye and is your business so _precious_ to you that you would let anyone walk in your home and smite your women?” Raymond asked in a raised voice.  
  
Mister Cassel took a measured step towards Ray. “Mister Hermadur, may I remind you that all your esteemed generosity aside, Stark Industries has a trade to maintain. We cannot afford to lose any business partners given the precarious position we are in. It is not wise to-”  
  
“It was not _wise_ of Lord Ramsay to corner Lady Sansa and _threaten_ her with bodily harm.” Sandor growled at Rodrik Cassel. He turned to the other men in the room. “I do not understand why House Stark won’t sever ties of any sort, personal or otherwise, with House Bolton after their own daughter has been wronged by the Bolton Heir.” Sandor turned to glare at Cassel pointedly. “Lady Sansa belongs to House Clegane now and any slight caused to _her_ is a slight caused to _me_ by proxy. Boltons are not the only forging industries in the region. If they choose to not work with Stark Industries anymore, I will personally look for other industries that would be willing to take on the forging work. You need not owe them anything. No one, absolutely no one, treats women the way the Bolton Bastard does and gets away with it, my woman in the least. Am I clear?” he thundered. One glance around the room assured him that everyone was nodding along and agreeing with him.  
  
“If you would excuse us, I would like to have a word with my men.” he said, barely sparing a glance at the wide eyed, startled men and staff gathered around the commotion.  
  
He turned to walk away when he saw Sansa near the staircase. The girl stood there, wide eyed and afraid, her palm raised to her stomach. An inexplicable urge took over Sandor, who found himself wanting to comfort the girl, abate the fear from her eyes.  
  
But what if he was the cause of her fear?  
  
He had, after all, just yelled at the better portion of her House men, practically growled at them like a feral, wild man.  
  
He stood at the same place for long agonizing moments, debating his intuition. His chest was still heaving from the yelling, his fist curled by his side. As much as he wanted to talk to her, apologize for his behaviour, he knew that approaching her while his anger was not assuage his previous behaviour. He didn’t want to fuck things up again.  
  
With all his might, he drew his eyes away from her and stomped to his rooms, his men following closely.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'm fucking flattered by the love. Thank you so so much for the kudos, hits and comments. Y'all deserve all the happiness and pixie dust in the world. 
> 
> Next update will likely be on Thursday. 
> 
> Next up, Sansa's reaction to Sandor's outburst.


	7. Line Between Fear and Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on Lord Clegane's outburst and they have a much needed conversation.

  
She was informed of the men’s arrival while she was bent over stacks of paper.  
  
She did not want to go downstairs to meet the men. In part, because they were going to discuss Lord Ramsay and she did not know if she wanted to hear anymore about him. In part, because she did not want to hear how they peacefully negotiated with Lord Bolton while skillfully evading any conversation about the assault on her.  
  
But then she had heard Lord Clegane’s thundering voice and her feet carried her out of the room, across the hallway and down the staircase even before she knew what she was doing.  
  
The Lord had his back to her, his shoulders seeming somehow wider as he screamed at Rodrik and the other Stark men before him.  
  
_“Lady Sansa belongs to House Clegane now and any slight caused to _her_ is a slight caused to me by proxy. Boltons are not the only forging industries in the region. If they choose to not work with Stark Industries anymore, I will personally look for other industries that would be willing to take on the forging work. You need not owe them anything. No one, absolutely no one, treats women the way the Bolton Bastard does and gets away with it, my woman in the least. Am I clear?”_  
  
Her stomach dropped as a whirlwind of emotions hit her.  
  
She felt angry at the claim of his ownership over her. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised at how he treated her like she was his property. After all, when you paid for something, signed a contract over it, it was, according to all the laws of the land, under your ownership. But she didn’t know the man, barely spent a fortnight in his company, had few conversations with him, each of which ended with him admonishing her and spent all her days doing her chores and resolutely avoiding the man.  
  
On the other hand, she felt grateful. He and his men stood up for her more than her own mother did. And his words, however patronizing, were said apropos of her protection.  
  
The swirl of emotions confused her. She didn’t know if she should feel angry or happy but she knew she was intimidated by him. He looked formidable, even from the back, as he commanded the whole room. He stood heads taller than anyone else, Mister Hermadur and Mister Hunter just barely catching up to his stature.  
  
When he turned to leave, his chest was heaving, his hands balled in a fist and his face curled in displeasure. It was then that he noticed her standing there. His hardened gaze was focused on her and as she looked into his eyes, some of the anger in those stormy orbs dissipated. He took an involuntary step towards her, shook his head lightly and walked his way.  
  
Only when he had walked away had she realized that the whole room had been staring at her, some in astonishment, some in envy, and others in anger. Her skin crawled under their scrutiny and she fled to her rooms.  
  
After the strenuous luncheon last week, she had avoided the man at all cost. She did not want to say anything that would upset him and have him cancel the union. She sat between her siblings, placating Arya and feeding Rickon.  
  
As her mother got more and more involved in the wedding planning, Sansa found herself taking over the duties of the household. Sansa had initially assumed that she would have a say in the wedding planning. Perhaps it was her fault in assuming that her opinions were important. Everything was being planned without the consent of the bride. The only thing Sansa had control over was the wedding dress, which she had to beg her mother for and had to promise that she would not make it excessively expensive.  
  
The gown was white, as would be for a virginal bride. She had sown beads and lace into the neckline, that cascaded down to shape her hips. The gown fitted her chest and fell loose at the bottom half. The train was appropriately long and Sansa loathed to keep it bland. She choose to stitch patterns into the train, subtle enough to not be noticed by anyone unless they were closely examining it. She stitched direwolves, for her father, trouts, for her mother, a sword for her sister, a raven for Bran, a bow and arrow for Rickon and a rose for Jeyne. She was working on a design for a bird flying over a dog when she realized that the sun had begun setting. She kept her gown aside in lieu of the chores that were waiting for her.  
  
She went about the kitchen, instructing the staff on the meal that had to be prepared. Her mother had told her handmaid that she was not to be disturbed and her dinner was to be delivered to her solar. The servants had also reported that Lord Clegane was still in discussion with his men so their dinner must be served in their room as well. Sansa worked around their respectful schedules, first ensuring her siblings ate, then sending food to the Clegane men and finally, she took her mother’s dinner to the woman herself. She found her mother and Maester Luwin in deep discussion which stopped the moment she walked into the room with a tray piled with food. She chose to ignore the discomfiture in her mother’s stance. The whole day, ever since the incident, she had felt like whispers had been following her in her wake. And she was not wrong. People around the house had been talking about her, some had gone so far as to sneer at her. She did not pay heed in the midst of all her responsibilities but the barely concealed whispers took root in her mind anyway.  
  
Once everyone had been served their dinner, Sansa took a bowl of stew and a few pieces of bread for herself. She sat on the small table in her room, eating the meal in small bites.  
  
In the quiet of her own chambers, her mind wandered to the whispers she has heard throughout the day. Some people were astonished by Lord Clegane’s protectiveness over her. Others believed that their pride had been slighted and that Lord Clegane was out of place in reprimanding them. She also knew that a small portion of the house staff believed Sansa was the root of all problems. She is, according to them, the girl who lured Lord Ramsay, caused an injury to a guest and now is set on marrying a brutish man from the West.  
  
The menial staff around the Keep did not complain of Lord Clegane’s outburst. The only complaint she had overheard were from the men who had been a part of the emissary. She knew the security of Stark Industries’ business was paramount and that compared to the survival of the company, her welfare meant naught but it still hurt to have her family put business over her. She did not expect anyone to stand up for her, to take her side, to fight for her. When her mother had told her that a group of men would be sent to Lord Bolton, she had assumed that they would bow their head and apologize, even though it was indisputable that House Stark was not at fault in any of this, especially not her. She felt bile rise in throat every time she thought of how Lord Ramsay had escorted her to the gardens, saying all those sweet things, only for a strange lust taking over his eyes that resulted in him pushing her to the wall and saying all that vile things to her. And if it was left to her House, they would have forgotten it all and absolved Lord Ramsay of all his doing. Her own mother was highly displeased with Lord Clegane’s outburst. She of course did not say so outwardly, but Sansa only had to look at her disapproving scowl to know what her mother felt.  
  
For Sansa, the biggest predicament was that she did not know the Lord enough to know the motive behind his words. Her impression of him before this had been of a crude and brash man, one who didn’t care about her in the least, one who was intent on disparaging her. But today she had seen him being a bulwark to her virtue. He stood tall as a mountain between her and those who chose to lessen her worth. The difference was that of night and day and she did not know if her life was destined to be a continuous circle of both - of him degrading her but also protecting her.  
  
She was lost deep in her thoughts when a knock rapped her door.  
  
“Lady Sansa?” a raspy voice asked.  
  
The chair she was sitting on almost fell back from the abrupt movement as she stood on her feet. It was well after dinner. Why was he at her door?  
  
“Y-yes. Uh, A moment please.”  
  
She walked around quickly, hiding any remnants of scattered clothes in the room. She spared a glance at the mirror, smoothing back the strands that stood upright. Brushing the creases on her dress, she moved to open the door after a deep breath.  
  
The man stood at her door dressed in a loose beige tunic and brown breeches, his hair pulled away from his scars at the nape of his neck.  
  
“Good evening, my Lady. I was hoping we could talk?”  
  
She nodded wordlessly and moved aside to let the man in. She shut the door behind him and when she turned around, his back was to her and he was looking around the room. Sansa walked into the periphery of his vision, spreading a hand towards the chair by the fireplace. Lord Clegane moved towards the chair on the right, dragged it farther away from the fireplace and took his seat. Sansa followed suit and sat next to him.  
  
“You -uh...you look lovely, my Lady.” the man said.  
  
Sansa scrunched her brows. She was wearing a yellow loose gown. There was nothing _lovely_ about it.  
  
“Thank you, my Lord. You said you wanted to discuss something?”  
  
“Yes, um.” The Lord squirmed in his chair, facing her. He looked her in the eyes when he spoke. “I wanted to apologize. For the luncheon last week.”  
  
Sansa was taken aback by the apology. She didn’t know what to say.  
  
“I was harsh and I shouldn’t have been. I should have apologized earlier but-”  
  
“It is quite alright, my Lord.”  
  
She saw as his shoulders sagged visibly.  
  
“Good. That’s good. I also would like to apologize for my words earlier today.”  
  
“I- I don’t understand, my Lord.”  
  
The man took a deep breath. “I have to be honest with you, my Lady. This Society - it’s rules and procedures - it does not bode well with me. I am a trader, a glorified farmer. I was not born into the Society, only became a part of this because it helped my business. Half the things I see in the Society does not make any sense to me. I do not understand why your father’s mistakes overshadow the legacy that he built, I do not understand why your brother’s elopement affects your reputation, I do not understand why men like the Bolton Bastard believe it is their right to abuse a woman, I do not understand why your House won’t hold the bastards accountable for what he had done.” She looked apprehensively at his fist as it was curled tightly by his side. “I might not understand much but I do know that women must not be tormented for their gender. I just- I hope you understand that what I said earlier today, was not meant as a claim of ownership. I will never seek to own you or control you. But if anyone treats you ill, I will protect you with every last bone of my body.”  
  
Sansa felt tears brimming in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself unable to voice anything.  
  
“I cannot promise you that I will be the most caring or gallant husband, my Lady. But I will never harm you. Of that, I can assure you.”  
  
Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. “I appreciate your honesty, my Lord.”  
  
The man gave her a brief nod before his eyes wandered to the fireplace. He looked at it with a determined focus and Sansa found herself examining the man. With his face turned to the fireplace, the smooth side was towards her. A sharp jawline, a strong nose, bushy brows. His face oozed strength and virility. He had bold features and Sansa could only imagine what he would look like without his scars.  
  
Sansa wanted him to leave. She wanted him to go. His words, however inelegant and awkward, were the most solemnest words she had heard since her Father'd death and she did not want to cry like a weakling before her intended. She did not want him to know how much his words meant to her.  
  
His lips quirked and Sansa realized he had been staring at her table.  
  
“Do you eat alone, my Lady?”  
  
“Ofttimes I do, my Lord.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I have a lot of chores, my Lord. It takes me time to ensure that everyone in the Keep is fed and when all the chores are looked after, I often retire to my room to eat alone. Other occupants of the Keep are ofttimes done with their meals by then.”  
  
The man looked back at her and Sansa blushed under his gaze. She ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
“My men and I find our meals devoid of good company, my Lady. Perhaps you would like to join us tomorrow? You could come after all your chores. We would wait for you. Only if you want, that is.”  
  
The man’s amateur efforts of appeasing her was endearing. She smiled a little.  
  
“I would be delighted, my Lord.” she said, smiling at the man, who gave her a small nod.  
  
For the first time in a long while, hope unfurled in her chest.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally looking good for the two of them, eh?
> 
> Also, I got my first ever paycheck today and I cannot explain how ecstatic I am. I hope all of you have a wonderful weekend filled with lots of laughs and happiness. On that note, there will be an early update tomorrow and fair warning, it's going to be one hundred percent pure fluff and awkward Sandor. *squealing*


	8. Making Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. 
> 
> That's it. That's the whole chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the well wishes. 
> 
> Also, yet again, thank you for all the kudos, comments and hits. You guys are the best!

“Does this look fine?” Sandor asked, trying on the third tunic.  
  
“Looks like phlegm.” Irwin remarked around a mouthful of apple.  
  
“I think it looks very appealing, my Lord.” Caelan said timidly.  
  
“Stop lying, ya fool. He looks shite.” Irwin said, throwing the pit of the apple towards Caelan who waved his hands in front of his face, fending off the attack.  
  
“Mighty useful you idiots are.” Sandor lamented, checking the tunic in the mirror. He looked at Irwin in the mirror’s reflection. “Did you send a letter for the ring like I asked you to?”  
  
The man rolled his eyes. “Yes, for the hundredth time, I did. Now will you please change into something that does not look like a badly digested breakfast?”  
  
It was noon and Lady Jeyne had come in a while ago, informing them that Sansa would be joining them for lunch after finishing her chores. What followed was a rigorous cleaning of Sandor’s chambers and jostling the men into changing their garments into something more formal. The room was sprayed with fragrances, the windows open to let fresh air in. Caelan had accumulated a whole bunch of roses and fit it in a vase. Sandor didn’t know where the boy got the roses from but they looked good sitting on the table and he hoped Sansa liked them.  
  
_What a romantic fool_ he mentally chastised himself.  
  
Sandor turned to the mirror. The green tunic did indeed look like shit. He walked back to the cabinet, rifling through the other tunics. He settled for a tunic that was amber in colour. It went well with his brown breeches. And the combination was very close to his house colours. He pulled the tunic over his head, slipping his arms through the garment. Tugging the garment to its right place, Sandor looked over himself.  
  
The garment looked nice. It was nothing ostentatious but one only had to look at the material to know that it was expensive and well sourced. The breeches shaped his legs well. He pulled on the ties of the tunic, knotting them at his chest. His gaze rose to his face and he felt his mood falter.  
  
He knew he was dressing in expensive and bright garments to take the attention away from his face but even if he were dressed in one of Sansa’s frilly gowns, nothing could reduce the glut of scars over his face.  
  
He sighed and lamented at the whole idea. Perhaps he should cancel luncheon all together?  
  
“My Lord?” a voice chriped from outside his door.  
  
_Too late now._  
  
Caelan ran around the room, bundling all the discarded tunics and carrying them to the cabinet and stuffing them in. He closed the cabinet forcefully and when done, held his thumb up for Sandor who smiled at the man.  
  
Sandor nodded at Irwin who sauntered to the door and pulled it open.  
  
Sansa stood there wearing a red gown. Her hair was unbound as opposed to the usual coiff she piled it up in.  
  
“Please have a seat, my Lady.” Sandor said, indicating to the small four seater table that was placed in the corner of his room.  
  
“I apologize for the delay. I was held up in the kitchen. The staff should be bringing us the food any minute now.”  
  
Caelan placed himself to the right of the girl, smiling adoringly at the woman as if she were the Maiden reincarnated. Irwin sat on the opposite side of hers, looking mildly bored at everything. Sandor placed himself on his left.  
  
“It is quite alright, my Lady. We had a hearty breakfast so we are not quite hungry.”  
  
“Is Mister Hermadur joining us?” she asked, looking around at all the occupied seats.  
  
“Raymond is with your mother, planning the wedding, like a couple of old women.” Irwin snorted.  
  
Just then, the staff walked in with several trays in their hands. The smell of roasted pig and braised vegetables wafted through the room. The staff placed a loaf of bread and butter in one side. They sipped their wine while their plates were piled with food.  
  
Sandor looked at Sansa’s plate from the corner of his eye and saw that she had taken a moderate amount of food.  
  
“Do you, um, have any plans for the day, Lady Sansa?” Caelan asked, attempting a conversation with the woman.  
  
“Nothing special, just household chores.” she replied.  
  
“You do anything beside them household chores?” Irwin asked, stuffing his face with more butter than bread.  
  
“I like to read. And sew. I make most of my own clothes and some for my siblings as well. And I like to garden.”  
  
“Fine craftsmanship you have, my Lady. The gown is very beautiful.” Caelan remarked.  
  
“Thank you, Mister Reid. That is very kind of you.” Sansa smiled at the man.  
  
“Do you work on the garden outside?” Sandor asked, genuinely interested.  
  
“I made the whole layout myself.” Sansa said, smiling with pride.  
  
“It looks very pleasant. The rows of flowers are all colour coordinated. I have never seen anything like it.” he remarked.  
  
They smiled at each other shyly. Sansa was the first to look away at the other occupants of the table.  
  
“Do you fine gentlemen have any dames waiting for your return?” Sansa asked with a smile.  
  
“No women has ever been able to hold me down.” Irwin smirked. Sansa raised her brows at him while Sandor just rolled his eyes.  
  
“I do, my Lady. This fine woman named Ina Mather. The most beautiful woman with the bravest soul and -”  
  
“Oh there he goes again.” Irwin said, throwing his head back is exasperation. “Tell the Lady how you fell in love. Go on. Listen to the fool, my Lady. You will choke with laughter.”  
  
“Well, it was when I was a wee boy of eight-”  
  
Sandor looked over the table as Caelan recounted the story of an eight year old Caelan who was chased by a dog until a six year old Ina came to his rescue, resulting into the young boy falling headfirst into eternal love., Caelan’s story was accompanied with Irwin’s teasing and Sandor gently admonishing the latter for being too harsh on the boy. Irwin and Caelan then began their usual diatribe about the importance of love in one’s life and Sansa seemed to observe it all good naturedly, smiling around forkful of roasted meat.  
  
With time, Sansa’s shoulders sagged and she relaxed into an easy posture. He noticed that as conversation flowed, Sansa picked on her food absentmindedly, so much that she even ate through the second helping Sandor gave her. Sandor chimed into the conversation occasionally but mostly he just sat back and observed.  
  
Initially, Sansa would smile at the men’s stories, hiding her grin behind a dainty hand. She wouldn’t partake in the conversation unless called to do so and seemed content in listening to the stories the men told her. Slowly, very slowly, her smiles became easier. Her eyes crinkled in the corner and she erupted in small giggles when Irwin recounted tales of a young Sandor. His impression of a fat war general from the Lannister Army sent Sansa laughing. It was like watching a sunset over the horizon, or waking up to snowfall, or watching the rain fall lightly over vast green fields. It was an absolute vision, one that he wanted to see, fill his memories with and remember for the rest of his existence. Her laugh was something poets could write about. Rare and beautiful and breathtaking.  
  
He thought of all the times he saw her before, her spine straight, her shoulders tight, weighed down with her responsibilities. Her smiles were rare and her laughs non existent. She was hardened by etiquette but an hour with them and she had shed all that aside. He saw her for the young woman she was.  
  
It wasn't as though the few hours spent with them changed her completely. He saw her face scrunch up in confusion several times. She seemed like she had questions she wanted to ask, things she wanted to know. But she would never voice them. Sandor knew firsthand what it felt like to believe that your voice didn't matter, that your existence was of no consequence. It was behaviour forged of a person whose existence was deemed menial and unimportant by others. It took him years to find his worth and he would extend the same patience to Sansa that Ray had done for him. She did not say much through the whole luncheon, rather she seemed content in listening to the men. Sandor found himself yearning for the day she would make quips and argue over their voices. It would take long but Sandor vowed that he would wait.  
  
Food was long finished, their deserts devoured with Sansa eating two whole pieces of cake. Sandor’s chest puffed with pride at her joviality and hearty appetite. Presently, they were sitting around the table long cleared except for their goblet of wine resting in their hands. Much to Sandor’s embarrassment, Irwin was recounting tales of Sandor’s green days. Sandor was retaliating by regaling stories about all of Irwin’s failed attempts with women back in the days. Caelan was occasionally butting in, taking Sandor’s side, much to Irwin’s chagrin. Sansa was looking at him with a fondly and Sandor loathed to admit that he was _preening_ at the attention.  
  
“My Lady?” a voice asked from the doorway.  
  
Four heads turned to a maid standing by the door.  
  
“Lady Stark has requested that the storage be catalogued. She asked that you help, my Lady.” the timid maid said.  
  
The men turned to Sansa who briefly slumped before straightening her spine, squaring her shoulders and reverting to her courtesies. “Thank you for the lovely luncheon, my Lord, gentlemen. If you would excuse me…”  
  
Sandor did not want her to go.  
  
He wanted to rage and scream, dismiss that maid at his door and march up Lady Stark and ask her to look after her own goddamned house and relieve Sansa of her duties for once! He wanted to shut everyone out, lock his door, possibly block it with the cabinet and keep Sansa here with his friends, where she could smile and talk and _laugh_.  
  
He wanted to keep her _happy_.  
  
If only it were Clegane Manor, he could get his way.  
  
He nodded at her and she gave them all a tight smile before pulling back her chair. Caelan wilted at her departure. Irwin nudged Sandor with his leg, looking pointedly and jerking his head towards the retreating form of the woman. _'GO'_ the man mouthed and Sandor scampered away from the table in his attempt to follow the woman.  
  
“May I escort you, my Lady?” he asked.  
  
The girl gave him a small smile and looped her arm through his. The heat of her skin warmed his whole arm and as they walked in silence, the brush of her legs against his made his stomach feel funny.  
  
“Thank you for joining us, my Lady.” he said, hoping she could sense the sincerity in his voice.  
  
She stopped and he realized they must have arrived at their destination. She turned to him and there was a strange gleam in her eyes.  
  
“Thank you, my Lord. I cannot recount the last time I enjoyed eating so much. Please thank Mister Hunter and Reid for being such a wonderful company. You are very fortunate to be surrounded by such good men. It was a very pleasant luncheon. I don’t think I have laughed so much since-” she paused, her eyes wandering as though lost in thought.  
  
He forced himself to ball his hands into a fist lest they give into the temptation to trace her lips, the full pink lips that were stretched in a smile mere minutes ago.  
  
“You look very beautiful when you laugh, my Lady. I am glad you had a good time.”  
  
They both stared into their eyes for a long time before he realized that she had duties that he was preventing her from doing.  
  
“Could I-’”  
  
“Would you-”  
  
They spoke at the same time and Sansa chuckled, the sound warming Sandor’s cold, dead heart.  
  
“You first, my Lord.”  
  
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind joining us for more meals, my Lady? Caelan and Irwin will be happy to have your company, as would Ray, I am sure.” he knew he was rambling but he couldn’t stop the nervousness. “We would wait for you to finish your chores, of course. In fact, you can come by anytime. Even over a cup of hot tea. Anything-”  
  
“Yes!” Sansa exclaimed, shocking Sandor with her enthusiasm. “That would be lovely.” she admitted with a smile, excusing herself and running away to a room nearby.  
  
Sandor stood there for long moments, the most nauseatingly dopiest smile on his face.  
  
Unbeknownst to them, a woman stood behind a pillar, watching the whole conversation  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I even post the next chapter, I apologize for it in advance. 
> 
> Next update will be made as soon as I finish a few more chapters.


	9. Monsters of the Myths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at what's happening in the Dreadfort Keep. 
> 
> Major trigger warning- Rape, dubious consent, violence and strong language.  
> If you want to skip the chapter, please feel free to do so. There is a short summary at the end of the chapter that you can read instead.

  
He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he chased the woman.  
  
His hounds barked wildly into the woods and their cacophony added to the desire coursing through him and he smiled gleefully, his feet bouncing over the smooth rocks, moss and soil.  
  
“My Lord, please. Please.” the girl begged.  
  
Her words sent a heat right in his groin and he felt his cock harden. He could almost feel his precome leaking out.  
  
The girl made a good effort at running but Death Fang, his second oldest hound caught up to her and sunk his teeth deep into the girl’s flesh and the whore let out a howl of pain.  
  
Ramsay laughed into the air of the forest. His precious hounds had done it again.  
  
The morning had been very productive. He had been able to finally, fucking finally, purchase that potion he kept looking for. Damned things were so hard to find and expensive but after weeks of looking for it, he finally got his hands on it. Money made everything easy and he fucking loved how easily he could get everything with his Lordship.  
  
Like this early afternoon celebratory hunt, for instance.  
  
He caught up to the girl and his cock throbbed hard at the sight.  
  
The whore was on her knees, the bite on her left thigh left her unable to walk and she unceremoniously tried dragging her pathetic little body on her hands and one good knee all the while sobbing and sniffling like the helpless creature nature had made her to be.  
  
She was covered in dust and dirt. Her dress was torn in several places, the long expanse of her left leg was visible as was her back from where the dress was torn. Blood was seeping out of the wound on her leg and she was littered with bruises. The girl kept looking back at him, begging and crying, _begging for mercy_.  
  
The sight was arousing.  
  
The girl was helpless. She could drag herself all she wanted but there was no getting away. On one side was him and on the other, his hounds stood guard, waiting and _drooling_ ; waiting for their master to ravage the girl so they could feast on her.  
  
Ramsay chuckled, untying his breeches. Reaching down, he pulled his cock out, pumping it furiously, watching the girl scramble away from him.  
  
What a pitiful thing. A weakling. A whore. Inferior. Immaterial. Irrelevant.  
  
A woman.  
  
A thing to use. To ravage. To plunder. To claim. To discard.  
  
He fell to his knees, grabbing the girl by her feet and pulling her back. The action made the skin of her elbows scrape the forest floor leaving a glorious trail of blood in the wake.  
  
He pulled her until her arse was positioned right in front of his cock.  
  
The held the tattered edge of the dress in his hands, ripping it until her hole was in view.  
  
Grabbing her neck with one hand and his cock with another, he plunged forth.  
  
A horrifying scream erupted the spring afternoon accompanied with the barks of several dogs.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Myranda scrubbed his hair as he rested in the tub.  
  
“Enjoyed your morning, my Lord?” she asked, her fingers scraping the dirt from his scalp.  
  
He was so relaxed, he didn’t even bother replying coherently. He only hummed in response.  
  
“Did she scream, my Lord? Was she tight when you plunged into her? Was your thick, long cock bathed in blood when you pulled out of her? Did the hounds enjoy their meal? hmm? “ she whispered in his ear, biting his lobe. Her bare tits brushed against his shoulders and he smirked at the feel of the peaked nipple leaving a trail on his skin. His hands wandered to his cock under the water.  
  
A knock interrupted their playful afternoon.  
  
“What is it?” Myr asked.  
  
“I-It’s Lydia, my Lord.”  
  
Ramsay smiled. “Let her in.”  
  
He sat upright in the tub as Myr placed herself on the stool by the tub in all her naked glory. The woman in question moved inside and bowed deep, just the way he liked.  
  
He had been a runt once, a boy who had barely enough to live by. He was kicked around plenty, no one was kind to a whore’s son. Now he was a Lord. A Lord who people bowed down to and in front of whom people trembled in fear, as they rightfully should. Like the old hag before him. He could smell the fear on her and he reveled in it for long moments before asking her to stand.  
  
“Any news?” he asked.  
  
“The wedding was delayed by a few weeks, my Lord. They plan on going to King’s Landing in three weeks’ time. The Lord will leave first with their men and then in three days, the Lady will leave with ‘er own staff.”  
  
“So the Winterfell Keep will be empty?”  
  
“No, m’Lord. Lord Bran will stay behind with some of the Keep guards.”  
  
“And is that red headed bitch sucking that ugly brute’s cock yet?” he asked with a sneer.  
  
“The Lady would not talk to the Lord much before but the day before I left, they had lunch together and I saw ‘em. She seems ta like him.”  
  
“Women!” he sighed. “Anything else?” he asked.  
  
“No, m’Lord.”  
  
Ramsay turned to Myr and nodded at her. The woman rose and fiddled with his discarded clothes, finding his purse and the vial amongst it. She pulled a few coins out and sauntered towards the woman in nude. She gave the vial to the woman in an outstretched hand and then threw the coins on the floor for the woman to collect. Ramsay laughed as the pathetic woman fell to her knees to collect the coins.  
  
“Hide the vial. You will be informed when and whom to use it on.” he instructed.  
  
“M-m’Lord. Please. Please don’t make me do this.”  
  
He smirked at her. He loved it when these lowly people begged for their Lord's favour. Such pitiful creatures, dependent on his whims for their survival.  
  
“You can and you will. Or the girl I have as a serving wench will be my bed warmer.”  
  
The woman nodded vigorously at her daughter’s mention, so foolishly unaware that the girl had, just like all the other women in his Keep, been stuffed to the brim with his seed already. The woman apologized and nodded profusely before leaving.  
  
He pondered over what the woman said.  
  
It infuriated him that Sansa Stark slipped from his grasp. That whore was rightfully his. He had offered to buy her, pay for her. She was supposed to be his. **HIS**. He was a Lord who deserved one of them sweet Ladys. He had been in the Society long enough to know that their women were bred to be submissive and pliant and timid and all those womanly qualities that would have them on their stomach, accepting him and his seed in whichever way he wanted.  
  
And then that monster had taken her away.  
  
Not for long, though. He would get her back.  
  
A week from now, a month from now, a year from now. He would get her back.  
  
He would fuck her raw, shove his cock in every hole. He would fuck her until she bled and cried and then he would let his guard fuck her. He would sit in his chair and watch as all her holes would be stuffed with cocks and then he would sit and stroke himself. He would give her to his hounds, yes, but not until she died of being fucked.  
  
He felt himself grow harder at the prospect.  
  
He turned to Myranda, who had positioned herself on the stool.  
  
He stood in the tub, the water running down his body. He cupped Myr’s jaws, taking her lips in a bruising kiss. He bit her lips until their kiss tasted of blood and only then he let go. The hand holding her jaw went to the back of her neck as he pulled her ahead and plunged his cock deep into her throat. The heat of her mouth made him close his eyes in enjoyment.  
  
He pumped with abandon, raising his head to the ceiling to let out a moan of pleasure.  
  
He imagined what it would be like to do this to Sansa, to have his cock shoved deep into that red headed whore’s mouth.  
  
His eyes opened and a malicious grin took over his face.  
  
He knew just what to do.  
  
  
  
**SUMMARY**  
  
Ramsay has an informant in Winterfell Keep. Her name is Lydia and Ramsay has her daughter working in his keep and he extracts information from the woman with the threat of assaulting the young girl. Lydia tells Ramsay that Lord Clegane and Lady Sansa are growing closer and that she has seen their growing affection herself. She also has news that when the Starks go to King’s Landing for the wedding, Lord Bran will be left behind. When she relays the information, Ramsay pays her and gives her a vial with an unknown substance. The chapter concludes with the notion that Ramsay already has a plan formulating.  
  
Character insight of Ramsay Bolton- being baseborn, Ramsay has led a hard life where he probably did not even have enough to get by. There is mention of him being abused when he was a nobody. As a Lord, Ramsay he enjoys subordination and humiliating people. He believes everyone exists to serve and pleasure him. He believes that as a Lord, he deserves highborn women like Sansa, who are usually very meek and submissive. He believes that Sandor has snatched her from him. And now he wants to get her back.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who has read my previous fics knows that I am a sucker for fluff. My first fic on this website was pure fluff. This chapter was a different experience to write and edit. However, it was necessary to do so because I wanted to explore Ramsay as a character before I wrote the things he does in the later chapters. It is really important to understand how much pleasure he derives from subjugation, subordination, violence and fear. It is important to understand that in order to understand why he does certain things in the upcoming chapters.  
> Needless to say, he isn't done yet. 
> 
> I promise I will make up for this chapter with one that you all will love very, very soon. 
> 
> I am currently working on chapter 15 and it looks like this fic is going to be over 20 chapters and quite long. I hope y'all are prepared for that. 
> 
> Next update should be on Wednesday or Thursday.


	10. Bad Influence Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of introspection and a small confrontation. 
> 
> Trigger Warning- Minor mention of past child abuse. Nothing graphic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially wanted to break this chapter and make two upload but it seemed unnecessary. So here it is. Sorry for the long read.

  
Meals with the Clegane men become a daily occurrence.  
  
The next time Sansa had joined them, Mister Hermadur was present. The five of them had had to adjust around the small table meant for four, pulling all their chairs closer together. The men, however, were respectful of her space. Mister Hermadur was the only one who sat a little close to her. Even Lord Clegane chose to sit away at a respectful distance. Mister Hermadur had taken the reigns of the conversation and had told Sansa all about the men’s childhood. By the end of the evening, Caelan, Irwin and Lord Clegane were flustered and embarrassed and kept trying to prevent Mister Hermadur from revealing secrets of their green days. It was downright hilarious how he treated the men like children despite them being celebrated war heroes. Under the guise of relentless teasing, it was evident that her saw the men as his own children.  
  
Mister Hermadur had confessed that after his wife and daughter’s untimely death, he had taken Lord Clegane in. He had not eluded to anything beyond that and though Sansa wanted to know the circumstances of the abrupt adoption of sorts, the tightness of Lord Clegane’s mouth insinuated that it was not something he wanted to recount, and Sansa did not want any unpleasant memories to mar the wonderful meal. Irwin was brought to the fold after his mother’s death and Caelan joined them about a decade later. When Mister Hermadur spoke of Caelan’s inclusion, she pretended not to notice the look of gratefulness that Caelan gave to Lord Clegane.  
  
Mister Hermadur’s story gave her an insight into the House she was to marry. Her own House had existed for thousands of generations. Folklore from centuries ago celebrated strong Stark men and occasionally, even women and the library at her home held proof of how the Starks played a part in the history of Westeros. The Cleganes, on the other hand, rose to prominence mere three years ago. They were a part of the Society much not one with it.  
  
She was raised around Society men. Polished and refined, words flowing like bards from their lips, courtesies and smiles plastered to their face, clothes so heavy and layered, it was a wonder they didn’t choke them. Prim and proper, at all times. Joffrey had been like that, so had Lord Ramsay. Saccharine sweet and chivalrous to perfection; all the malevolence hidden six feet under.  
  
The Cleganes were nothing like it. They were brash and crude and open. Irwin swatted his Lord like brothers of a womb and teased Caelan like he was a little boy of ten. They did not bound themselves by the shackles of decorum and Sansa found it fascinating. They were unapologetic about their personality. They threw their heads back and laughed without a worry and Sansa found herself staring at them in wonder, imagining what it would feel like to be _free_.  
  
Ever since she was a girl, Sansa had a clear understanding of what was expected of her. She was to marry a Society boy, run his household, behave apropos of his station, arrive arm in arm with her husband at Society events and smile at anyone and everyone, carry and birth children and in due time, if her firstborn son deemed her worthy, she could be his advisor when he took over the House. She was nine, as old as Arya, when she had begun studying under a Septa. She was taught skills that would help her run a household. Her Septa would walk with a stick and strike her back if she slumped. She was taught to sit with her hands on her lap, one folded on top of the other and her feet straight under her skirts.  
  
When they had found out about Robb’s elopement, the entire room had turned to Sansa and she _knew_ the look in their eyes.  
  
Expectation.  
  
Pity.  
  
When she was a child, she would build forts out of blankets and make a house underneath. She would spend hours under the covers, pretending it was her house and she was its owner. Now, she built fort walls of courtesies around her. Decorums became the blankets and courtesies her bulwark and she hid underneath their safety. She knew what was expected of her and she played it to perfection.  
  
Except, in the company of the loud and unrestrained men of House Clegane, she found herself wanting to reach out and touch liberation.  
  
As much as she loved their company, Sansa had duties in the household that she could not forego. She awoke, much before anyone else. She still has tasks to complete, siblings to awaken and mouths to feed. She did not neglect her duties. She completed all of them and ensured that she share at least one meal a day with the Clegane men. The rest were sometimes consumed in silence in her own room or even with the House staff. She was still knee deep in her courtesies and did not let years of forged behaviour crumble.  
  
However, when she was with the Clegane men, it was a whole different matter altogether.  
  
It was as though she chose to leave her courtesies by the door before she entered. She spent most meals in the company of Caelan and Lord Sandor. Mister Hermadur was often busy with work and Irwin spent time in Wintertown doing something or the other. Sansa found herself missing Irwin’s dry humour on the days of his absence but he always made up for it by returning with stories from taverns and whorehouses, the kind of places Sansa had only heard of and never been to herself.  
  
Their company brought out something in her. Something inexplicable and exciting.  
  
In time, she did not remain a mere observer of the conversation; she became a part of it. She chimed in, made comments, asked questions, knowing she would always be heard and answered. She did not need to contemplate on her refinement, for her company did not require it. She could be blunt, she could be brutal, she could be herself. Not that she was, not all the time. Her breeding, after all, had been long ingrained. She was reserved, but with them, she would let the walls around her dent a little, just enough to let the light in.  
  
Her jokes initially were shy, and said in a whisper. But Irwin whooping at her and Caelan espousing her behaviour encourages her and she finds herself making quips. There was a thrill to knowing that the jokes she made had someone laughing and clutching their stomach in mirth. She reveled in the notion that she could provide happiness.  
  
They did not bound her or treat her like an inferior. All four of the men had been on the battlefield, Lord Clegane was rumoured to wield a sword almost as tall as him and Irwin had made claims that he can throw daggers across battlefields. Their knowledge of business, accounting and farming was impressive. Mister Hermadur has read many books on law and keeps a close correspondence with the Citadel. And yet, they appreciate the menial talents she possesses. Mister Hermadur had remarked that the finesse of her stitches was the finest he has seen and tells her that if he had such a talent, he would train under a Maester and assist in healing. She goes to bed that night imagining what it would be like to heal and save lives. Irwin asks her to bring books on cropping and she finds the erstwhile crude man to be very intelligent as they discuss different methods of cultivation. They make her believe that she can do more than just decide menus and host fancy feast. They make her feel useful. And Sansa unexpectedly finds herself thinking of the West as a mysterious land with sunshine and prospects.  
  
They do not ask her to change. They do not ask her to improve as well.  
  
They just accept.  
  
And Sansa, who has been asked, every step of the way, to _change_ \- the way she walked, the way she sat, the way she spoke, the way she wanted to get married and fall in love, change all of that - feels like she might cry into her pillows each night because someone, _anyone_ has finally accepted her for who she is.  
  
Mister Hermadur had informed her that much to her mother’s reluctance, the wedding had to be delayed. Four weeks was deemed too short to arrange a wedding, especially with the weeklong journey it would take to reach Kings Landing. Sansa suspects that in order to placate her mother, Lord Clegane had to offer part of the bride price in advance. She felt wounded that her mother wouldn’t award the due time needed to plan a good wedding for her daughter unless she was offered money. She convinces herself of looking into the silver lining, that she can spend more time with Lord Clegane and his men before her inevitable nuptials.  
  
And the men like her company too, so there is no one to complain.  
  
Even though meals are a pleasure reserved just for her, Lord Clegane and his men make an admirable effort of acclaiming themselves with the other members of the House.  
  
Arya takes to Irwin and Lord Clegane, who do not seem to find it strange that a girl wished to join their sparring session. Lord Clegane has claimed that a sizeable portion of his army reserves are women and he would not be dull-headed enough to reject capable assets just because they lacked male genitalia. (Sansa is of course paraphrasing because the expletives Lord Clegane uses are colourful to say the least and Sansa may be letting her guard down but she is still a Lady). Sansa could see the stars shining in Arya’s eyes as the girl looked up to the men who thrust wooden swords at her and encouraged her to improve her skills. Bran found a mentor in Mister Hermadur, who readily shared all that he knows about the Citadel, the good and the bad. He taught Bran the loopholes in the laws crafted by the Citadel and soon Bran is heard countering Maester Luwin in his teaching. Caelan and Bran became fast friends, bonding over their love for animals and history. Rickon did not seem very fond of Lord Clegane, often scowling at the man and accusing him of taking his sister away.  
  
Lord Clegane and his men were very respectful of the house staff and in a matter of a week have learnt the names of people who serve them food and clean their quarters. They greet the menial staff by name and ask them about their family. When Bertha declares that she must take a leave for her daughter had birthed a child, Lord Clegane, without a thought, passed her a bag of coin and conveyed his regards and good wishes. Such gestures, however, are not appreciated by all.  
  
Some of the Stark men complain about Lord Clegane and his men. The Master-at-arms who trains Bran complains of how Lord Clegane and his advisors try to undermine his teaching. Maester Luwin complains about Arya’s lack of focus on her lessons as she chose to train with the Lord instead. Rodrik Cassel and Stark guards have lengthy complains about sore muscles and aching bones after sparring with the men. All the complaints irritate her mother, who barely tempered her annoyance because her future goodson is her business’ saving grace and she cannot possibly rage at him. Lady Catelyn herself feels that Lord Clegane’s exaggerated attention towards her house staff is an elaborate plot of undermining her authority.  
  
Sansa believes that any such accusations are slanderous. A vain part of her wishes to remind everyone in the keep that it is _her_ intended who has made it possible for Stark Industries to survive and is an indirect reason why there is a roof over their head.  
  
However, she is not brave enough to make such courageous statement and though it repulses her whenever someone talks ill about Lord Clegane or his men, she sits in silence and listens with a mild look of annoyance on her face. As they say, silence speaks louder than words and soon no one comes to her with complaints about the men. She feels somehow accomplished.  
  
Between Lord Clegane and herself, Sansa can only recount two sessions where she was solely in his company.  
  
He teased her and called her _Little Bird_ and though it is meant to be an insult, Sansa does not mind. It became strangely endearing. The first time they had dinner, just the two of them, it was mostly quiet and filled with shy glances. Every time she looked up at him, he was already looking at her and then he’d duck his head or looked away. Eventually, they had spoken a bit. Sansa had spoken of her father, of her fondest memories of him, his arms that had always been there to catch her. He spoke of Mister Hermadur, who took Sandor in when he was about as old as Arya. He says that the man is a benediction in his life and that without him, Lord Clegane would not have been a third of the man he was today. Sansa senses sorrow and pain behind the sentiment but she does not ask him about it. She wishes she could reach across the table, envelope him in her arms and protect him, age and stature notwithstanding. She had to curl her hands into a fist to not give into the intuition.  
  
The only other time they had met, it was over a cup of tea in the late afternoon and they toured the gardens, their arms looped. Lord Clegane commented on the patterns and the technique and Sansa blossomed under the praise. They spent an hour seated on the bench behind the canopy of trees, a comfortable silence between them, their intertwined hands resting between their bodies as Sansa resting her head on his broad, capable shoulders.  
  
It was the happiest day of Sansa’s life.  
  
She slowly begins seeing glimpses of the man for who he is. A week is not a long enough time to know anyone but Sansa is not daft. She observes, looks when no one else does and notices things. He hands out alms to those in need without question, like the man who swept his quarter and told him that his daughter had the pox. He patiently heard the man’s sorrow, asked a few questions and fetched a bag of coins to give the man. The Lord has a strange relationship with his destier and Sansa had spied on him once and seen as the Lord had gone to the stables to personally clean and feed the horse with gentle caresses. The horse - the very same that the stable men cannot stop complaining about - nudged the man lovingly and huffed in satisfaction under his master’s attention.  
  
Knowing him, knowing the men around him, it has been a soothing balm to her worries. She has a friend in Caelan, a brother in Irwin, a mentor in Mister Hermadur. With the Lord himself, she had _something_. She finds herself adjusting to the prospecting of the union. She finds herself accepting her fate. She only wished that she could have met the man under different circumstances, one where she could spend more time with him before the marriage, one where she did have to feel like a bought commodity.  
  
She found herself praying more these days, both to the Old Gods and the New. The whole week had felt like a blessing and she wanted to let the Gods know that they had her gratitude;  
  
Lest something happen that were to take it all away.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sansa has been taught how to control her nervousness.  
  
And yet, she cannot seem to prevent as her left leg shakes under the cover of the table.  
  
Her mother sipped her tea leisurely, casting a glance at Sansa.  
  
To someone naive, it would have been a request to spend more time together. Sansa, however, knows better. Her mother did not extend an invitation to join her for the evening tea simply because she meant to spend time with her daughter. She knows that it is some form of interrogation.  
  
“My handmaid tells me you have been spending time with Lord Clegane and his men.”  
  
There it is. An observation meant like a question.  
  
“Yes. I share a meal a day with the Lord and his men.” she replied cautiously.  
  
“Is he good to you?”  
  
Sansa struggled to not smile at that. He’s the only one that’s good to her. “Yes, mother. Yes he is.”  
  
“Good. That’s good.” Her mother took another sip of her tea. “What about the alms he keeps donating to the staff in the Keep? Did you know about that?”  
  
“Lord Clegane is charitable to those in need.”  
  
“Yes, of course he is. He was poor once himself, was he not? Perhaps it’s some form of guilt.” the woman mused  
  
Sansa tried not to show the displeasure on her face. So what if Lord Clegane was poor once? His humble upbringing is the reason why he is not as entitled as the other men in the Society. She sipped the tea silently, not giving in to the urge of arguing with her mother.  
  
“Maester Luwin tells me Arya is constantly distracted from her study. I plan on having a Septa train her in the next few months. I am worried of the influence Lord Clegane has on the girl. I pity the Septa who will have to bring the unruly girl to follow appropriate behaviour.”  
  
If it were left to Sansa, she would never let Arya train with a Septa. As nurturing as Septa Mordane was, she filled Sansa’s head with empty words and courtesies that robbed her of an opportunity to be anything more than a glorified housekeeper.  
  
“He also tells me that Bran keeps countering the Citadel’s teaching. Someone keeps teaching him the loopholes in the laws crafted by the age-old institution. And Rickon. Oh what will I do with that boy?”  
  
She would know what to do with the boy if she ever spent time with him, bothered to feed him, bathe him, read him stories. But those fell to Sansa, who knows how inquisitive and sensitive the boy is and how he would flourish with proper care.  
  
Sansa thumbed the rim of the cup, waiting for her mother to be done with her concerns. Sansa did not want to unnecessarily argue with her mother, not when she was only under the woman’s supervision for a mere fortnight.  
  
“I am concerned about you, Sansa.”  
  
“Why mother? Have I been neglectful in my duties?” Sansa asked, genuinely concerned. She never relinquished her duties. Not even when she yearned to spend time with Lord Clegane.  
  
“I worry about the influence the man would have on you.”  
  
Sansa felt her patience wearing thin.  
  
“His _influence_ on me did not matter to you when he offered close to a million to marry me, did it Mother?”  
  
“Sansa, have some care for-”  
  
“Where was your concern when Lord Ramsay threatened to rape me? Were you concerned about me when you intended to not offend him for the harm that awful man caused to me?” Sansa felt her chest heave in anger. “I am grateful someone has offered Arya an alternative to simply following the ideals of the Society submissively. Perhaps if I had received some training in arms, I would have been able to fend of Lord Ramsay’s attack on me. I am grateful Bran does not blindly follow what he is taught; the boy has a thirst for knowledge that Maester Luwin cannot contain. And as for Rickon, you would know what to do with him if you bothered to spend time with him.”  
  
Sansa stood from her chair, staring down at her mother.  
  
“Sandor Clegane is the reason Stark Industries will have another chance at survival. Sandor Clegane is the reason this Keep and all its people will have food on their plate come winter. You chose to sell me to him without my consent and I will not apologize for fraternizing myself with the man I am supposed to spend the rest of my life with.”  
  
Turning on her heels, Sansa walked out of the roam, not bothering to spare a glance at her mother.  
  
Her spine straight, her chin jutted out, her hands by her side, a serene smile on her face, Sansa walked with more pride than ever before.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some cute wedding fluff today and urgh I can't wait to upload it. 
> 
> Next update will be soon or whenever I am done stuffing my face with ice cream as I suffer through cramps. The human female body is a bitch.


	11. A Temporary Farewell

  
His fingers tapped impatiently on the table.  
  
He looked down apprehensively at the platter in front of him.  
  
It had taken some cajoling and bribing for Bertha to reveal what the Little Bird liked and the very next order had been to send Irwin out to find the sourest, ripest lemons.  
  
This was the second meal just the two of them would be sharing, not taking into account the stroll in the gardens. That had been the most content and peaceful day of Sandor’s existence.  
  
“May I come in, my Lord?”  
  
Sandor looked up to Sansa standing by the door wearing a pink gown. Whenever she wore pink or red, he’d noticed that the ever present blush on her cheeks somehow looked prettier and the colours made her hair look more inviting. He wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through the tresses. Were his calloused fingers even worthy of the pleasure?  
  
“Please, my Lady, have a seat.” he said, getting up from the chair and helping her into one.  
  
“Will the men be joining us today?”  
  
“No. I was hoping, with us leaving in two days’ time that you and I could spend more time together?” he asked carefully, not entirely sure if his sole company was something she wanted.  
  
A full-faced grin from her abated any apprehensions.  
  
“I have it on good confidence that you enjoy these” he said, slowly lifting the lid off the plate, all the while watching her face as it morphed from confusion to shock to wonder. Her hands rose to her chest as she turned to stare at him with wide eyes.  
  
“Lemon cakes?!” she asked in a shocked whisper as if saying it aloud would result in someone stealing them away.  
  
“Are you pleased, my Lady?”  
  
“Pleased? My Lord, I haven’t had these in so long. My Father would request his Southorn friends to bring crates filled with lemons and he’d store them in ice so that I always had lemon cakes around the years. How did you even find them? Oh Seven! I thought I’d never have these confectionaries again!”  
  
The girl rambled and Sandor sat back, observing her talk about lemons. Sometimes he forgot how young she was. He kept the lid aside and smiled proudly that he could bring the girl happiness by bringing her a fruit that grew in plenty in his lands.  
  
He felt pressure on his arm and realized that the girl had reached out to place a delicate hand over his paw. He stared at her incredulously, his fingers relishing in the warmth of her hands.  
  
“I cannot possibly explain how happy you have made me today, my Lord. Thank you so much.”  
  
She looked at him sincerely and under her benevolent smile, he felt his heart constrict. He turned his hand until it clasped hers gave her palm a careful squeeze.  
  
Physical touches were not frequent between them. He knew that women like her deemed any physical closeness to be inappropriate before marriage. It took him time and effort to gain her confidence and he did not want to lose it by not having control over his basest instinct. So he never touched her, never pressured her to do anything to break the fragile friendship he had created.  
  
He retreated his hand slowly. “Shall we?” he asked, indicating the cake that sat between them.  
  
The girl clapped her hands, practically bouncing in her seat. Sandor smiled at her childishness. She grabbed the knife by the plate, carefully sliding it through the cake, cutting it into perfect shapes. She carefully lifted two pieces into two plates and he noticed she gave him a bigger piece.  
  
He never had much of a sweet tooth. Spending a good share of his childhood scavenging for food meant that he never had luxuries like dessert. Even now, he would eat an occasional slice but it wasn’t something he overly fond of. He switched his plate with hers, giving her the bigger slice. She tried arguing but he did not yield. He took a small bite from the thin slice in front of him, the sourness pleasant on his palate and winked at her, knowing she had no option but to eat the bigger slice now.  
  
She held her dessert fork reverently in her hand, staring at the slice like it was a blessing from the Gods above. She cut into the cake, taking a slow bite, closing her lips around the fork. Her eyes closed as a moan escaped her lips.  
  
The sound travelled straight into his breeches.  
  
_Down, boy._  
  
He observed her, drool pooling in the corner of his mouth, as she chewed on the cake carefully. Done with the piece, her eyes opened slowly and she gave him the biggest grin ever.  
  
They spoke as he finished his slice slowly, her taking a second and finishing it just as slowly and erotically. They spoke of everything, menial and important. He told her of the games he and Caelan played with Rickon. The boy had been wandering around the Keep by himself, looking desolate and Caelan and Sandor had spent the better part of an hour just chasing the boy around the ground. Sansa told him of the progress she had made with her gown and how she had sewn patterns of House Clegane on to it.  
  
Three dogs on a field never meant more to him than at that moment.  
  
He smiled at her admission of the patterns and the girl ducked her head, her hair falling in front of her face, failing to hide the blush. He wanted to reach out and tuck the strand behind her ear.  
  
“When will you depart, my Lord?”  
  
“In two days. We want to leave in the morning. Make good progress through the day.”  
  
If he could, he would get married in the simplest of ways but a wedding between two Houses had to be held in the Sept of Baelor all the way down in King's Landing. The Citadel proclaimed that the Sept was the center of the Faith of the Seven and any marriage in its ground had the benediction of the Gods. Not that Sandor was gullible enough to believe that shit. Weddings at the Sept cost a fortune and was the easiest way for the Faith to gain some money. But it was a compulsion and Lady Stark was adamant and Sandor wasn't foolish enough to argue with his soon to be good mother.   
  
“And we leave three days after you do, yes?” she asked hesitantly. He knew that unlike Ray, who informed him of whatever discussion was being done with regards to the wedding, Lady Stark barely divulged the details with Sansa. He did not want her to be in the dark with the details of her own wedding so he gave her as much information as he could.  
  
“Yes. Should take about a week. Caelan will meet you when you arrive and take you to the villa. The marriage will be in two days’ time. We will have a reception that evening and rest for three days and depart for the wedding. I apologize for the haste but I have been away from my trade too long. My absence from work cannot be stretched any longer. ”  
  
“You do not need to apologize, my Lord. I was indeed wondering who looked after your business with you being here.”  
  
“I have one of my advisors there. Wilhelm Dugan. Very capable and resilient. He is looking after everything until we go back.”  
  
He noticed her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. She had a question. He could sense it. She seemed hesitant in asking as he gave her a few minutes to make her own choice.  
  
“If you do not mind me asking, my Lord, how do you trust your men so easily? Some of the men serving House Stark have done so through generations and we are still wary of them. The men around you, Caelan, Irwin, Mister Hermadur, none are trained. How are they so efficient at their job and how do you trust them so easily?”  
  
Sandor considered the question before answering. “It’s like a pack of strays, my Lady. We all come from nothing, boys who had just enough to survive and sometimes not even that. We cherish what we have now because we have been through worse, a lot worse. I offered to train the men, pay for their education should they want to acquire a skill. We were all runt of the litter and we do not take to the privilege we have now lightly. Caelan tends to the animals around the keep like they are his children, Irwin spends all his money on the sick and Wilhelm is always surrounded by a flock of children, teaching them to love themselves for who they are. The day they turn to the pretenses of the Society and take their wealth for granted, I will deem myself a failed Lord. Their worth is in their action, my Lady; not their name.”  
  
Sansa listened to every word carefully and when he was done, her face was scrunched in confusion, as if mulling his words over. Whatever she must have concluded must have been good because she turned to him with a small smile and nodded at his words.  
  
“I hope I can live up to the worth of your men, my Lord.”  
  
He smiled at that. He had seen broken and shattered women, plenty of whom worked in his Manor. Every one of them had been shaped by different circumstances, unique and painful in their own way but they were determined and irrepressible. Sansa had her own pain, her own story. She did not need to measure up to anyone else. She was strong in her own way. He hoped she’d realize that in due time.  
  
“You already are, my Lady.”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The sun was barely over the horizon when they began strapping their bags to the horses.  
  
Men in the Society used fancy carriages for travelling but those things were tedious and a burden more than anything else. No one in their party was old, too young or sickly, they were all perfectly capable of travelling on horseback for a week. The carriage for Sansa, the one that would take her from King’s Landing to Lannisport would come with the rest of the wedding party from Clegane Manor.  
  
The Stark household had barely awakened by the time they had all emerged dressed and ready for the journey. The staff had their own work cut out and he did not want to distract them too long. He met some of the staff earlier in the day, bid them farewell and thanked them for their service, handed them a bag of coins. As he walked to the stables, he was taken aback by the presence of Sansa and a half-awake Rickon by her side. Sansa wore a green dress, a robe pulled around her frame, her hair was pulled back into a braid. Rickon stood by her feet clutching her dress tightly.  
  
Stranger was already waiting outside, saddled and ready.  
  
He went near Sansa.  
  
“What are you doing here, Little Bird?”  
  
“I wanted to wish you farewell, my Lord.”  
  
He smiled at her. He bent down to his haunches, staring at the boy whose eyes were sleep swollen.  
  
“Good morning, my Lord.” he greeted to which the boy responded with a sound of displeasure, digging his head deeper within his sister’s skirt. Sansa’s hand came to rest on the boy’s head, gently ruffling the unruly curls. He smiled, a sudden vision of another small boy attached to Sansa’s skirt, hair like hers, the shade of sunset and eyes like him, the sea in the dead of the night.  
  
“Not awake yet, little Lord?” he asked and the boy shook his head.  
  
“See the giant horse there?” he asked, pointing at Stranger. The boy peeked from behind the skirt and took in the destier with a curious gaze. “Want to go riding?” he asked and the boy nodded enthusiastically, extracting himself from his sister’s skirt and making grabby hands at Sandor.  
  
“Up up.” the boy commanded and Sandor hefted him by his waist, settling him against his chest. The boy’s arm went around his neck and he rested his head at the crook of Sandor’s neck. It shocked Sandor how affectionate the boy was with him, despite knowing him for a very short time.  
  
“Is it alright if I take him for a ride?” he asked Sansa who gave him a shy nod, biting her lips.  
  
He walked towards Stranger, keeping a firm hold on the boy with an arm and hoisting himself up with another. He placed the boy in front of him, his back to Sandor’s chest. Keeping a tight hold on him with one arm, he patted Stranger with another, the horse taking off in a slow run.  
  
The boy clutched his arm with a death grip, slowly letting go after a few minutes. The boy finally gave into it, chuckling as the horse’s movement bounced him up and down. Sandor showed him how to hold the horse’s reins and how to command it. He took two rounds of the yard, slowing to a stop after the second.  
  
“More! More!” the boy cheered.  
  
He hefted the boy up, turning him around and making him standing in front of Sandor on the horse.  
  
“Have to go, little Lord. I will give you more rides when you come to King’s Landing.”  
  
“Pwomise?” the boy asked, squinting at Sandor.  
  
“Promise, little Lord.” he vowed, grabbing the boy and climbing down from Stranger’s back.  
  
The boy began squirming and Sandor dropped him by Sansa’s feet. He went to her side, bouncing on his heels, clearly more awake than before. The only reason he stood in once place was because Sansa’s hand held him like an anchor.  
  
He looked at Sansa, memorizing her face. He was acting like a lovesick fool, his heart in despair as though he was going to be separated from her for eons.  
  
His hand rose on its own, like it had its own mind. It rose until his palm cradled her face, shaping her jaw and holding her like she was some rare jewel to behold. He tipped forward on the balls on his feet and reverently kissed her forehead. The skin was smooth under his chapped lips and he closed his eyes and memorized the texture of her skin. Some part of his brain registered her hand holding his where it cupped her jaw. When he pulled back, her eyes were closed too.  
  
He stood back on his heels, his thumb brushing over her chin before extracting the hand. Her eyes snapped open and he was taken aback by the emotions he saw in those blue eyes.  
  
“I look forward to meeting you at the altar, Little Bird.” he whispered.  
  
Turning back, he climbed atop his destier, giving it a hard kick and bounding off before he did something foolish like lifting the girl off her feet and carrying her over his shoulders, propriety be damned.  
  
He survived three decades without the girl, how hard could a week be?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, its not like Sandor's going to miss his Little Bird a lot in a week, right? ;)
> 
> I am going to increase the frequency of updates. I will probably update three-four times a week. 
> 
> Next up, King's Landing.


	12. Prospect of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is a lovesick bub :((

  
A week without her, as it turned out, were the most insipid seven days of his existence.  
  
The week on the road hinged on the verge of tolerable. Irwin, Caelan and Sandor entertained themselves by racing each other and engaging in absurd challenges that constantly threatened bodily injury. The only thing that held them back from spiralling into recklessness was Ray urging that the groom not be injured before his wedding. They spent some time in discussing the arrangement and going over all the details. They stayed at inns only twice through the journey, spending the nights on the forest floors. As men who had been to a fare share of battle, they were accustomed to sleeping on the forest floor. Their present lives, however luxurious, did not absolve them of their poor roots.  
  
In those nights, under the vast expanse of the night sky, the leaves of the trees rustling softly, he would think of Sansa. In those quiet moments, he would acknowledge his growing fondness over her. He had begun caring for her like one did for a dear friend. He wanted her welfare. He wished for her happiness. In his profession, he had met people of all kinds, rich and poor alike. Yet he’d never met someone like her. She had a zeal, a fire deep in her soul, red and blazing, just like her hair. She was worth beyond what the Society had confined her to. She was intelligent and insightful, eager to learn and understand. She had a gentle soul but a strong resolve. A kind disposition but a brave heart. Perhaps she did not know it yet, but she was meant for greatness.  
  
Even her ‘chirping’ that he had found to be vexing before had become something he had come to enjoy fondly. Of course, he still didn’t like it when she chirped her empty courtesies; but he liked it when she spoke of something she found to be interesting. Like the day they strolled the gardens. She gesticulated and spoke of the layout and designs with a spark in her eyes. Or when she spoke of the designs she made on her wedding gown, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the table.  
  
She held so much love and passion, the likes of which he was unfamiliar with. He could spend hours in her company, patiently waiting to be on the receiving end of her endearment.  
  
In King’s Landing, the three days before the Stark arrival was spent knee deep in responsibilities. Sandor had so much to do, so much to supervise and each night that he went to bed, he found himself to be tired to his last bones. He found himself more in debt to his men than ever before. They worked alongside him, looking after all the arrangements as if it were their own wedding.  
  
When the news of Lady Stark’s arrival came to him, he found himself yearning to welcome their party himself. He would smile at them all like a gallant man, exchange pleasantries with the sour Lady Stark herself as long as he would get one glimpse of his bride to be.  
  
Ray, the vapid man that he was, refused to let Sandor meet Sansa before the nuptials. Something about the bride and the groom meeting for the wedding before a bad omen and whatnot. He was supposed to spend the rest of his life with her and the marriage was agreed upon, even so far as in the form of a written contract, as demeaning as that was. He did not understand how meeting her before the nuptials would change anything. He wanted to meet her, see for himself that the journey had not taken a harsh toll over her well being, perhaps even spend an entire day touring the bazaars of King’s Landing with her, buying her whatever little trinkets that the woman liked. But Ray had put his foot down, forbidding Sandor from appearing in the vicinity of Lady Sansa. Sandor had grumbled and groaned but acquiesced.  
  
Despite his frustrations, he sent men to ensure that all the arrangements made for her and her family and staff were satisfactory. He arranged linens, feather stuffed pillows, the finest wine money could buy, the grandest of arrangements, all for her. It was not as though her mother wouldn’t have wanted her daughter to be comfortable but if his month-long stay at Winterfell Keep had taught him anything, it was that Catelyn Stark did not always put her children before the Stark business or before the expectations of the Society. He did not want the last few days between mother and daughter to be spent quarreling.  
  
He was overlooking the cart that would carry all the things to the villa rented for the Starks, a man standing by the cart, diligently checking everything against the paper he held in his hand when the idea struck Sandor. A letter! He wasn’t allowed to meet her but he could write to her. That did not break any rules. He asked the men to wait for him while he went upstairs to his room, chalking a quick letter. He found Caelan lurking in the kitchens, stealing berries from a crate. Dragging the man out by his arm, he thrust the paper at Caelan, instructing him to escort the cart to the Stark villa and to personally hand this letter to Sansa and no one else.  
  
“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll-” Sandor began his threat with a low growl.  
  
“No need to threaten me, my Lord. Or are you forgetting how many notes I threw at Ina’s window during my green days?” the man asked with a wink and Sandor had to begrudgingly accept Caelan was the only one amongst his closest advisors who probably knew a thing or two about such romantic adventures.  
  
  
  
 **Little Bird.**  
  
 **Some foolish rule of the Society forbids us from meeting until the day of the wedding. If it were up to me, I would barge down to your villa and steal you away but I don’t think Lady Stark would appreciate it much. ~~Not that she’s overly fond of me anyway.~~**  
  
 **I hope that your journey wasn’t too tiring and that you and your family are in good health.**  
  
 **Please let Caelan know if you need anything. Your comfort is of primary importance. **  
****  
 ** ~~I miss y~~**  
  
 **I look forward to meeting you.**  
  
 **S.**  
  
  
  
In the ensuing two hours, Sandor stood by his window, looking for his men’s return. When he got called for some work or the other, he pestered everyone with the same question;  
  
“Has Caelan returned yet?”  
  
When the blessed man did make his way back to the house Sandor rented for himself and his men, Sandor was already in the entryway, almost bouncing on his feet and waiting for the man. Caelan walked up to him, gave him a brief hug and slipped a piece of paper into Sandor’s hand. The young man then went inside and began talking to other people, drawing their attention away from the Lord, who slipped into an empty room nearby and opened the paper.  
  
  
  
 _Lord Clegane_  
  
 _I want to begin with expressing how delighted I am to be able to receive your letter. I find myself terribly missing your company. Your departure had only served to remind me how empty my days were in the North before._  
  
 _I cannot thank you enough for everything you have arranged for us. I am sure you assume I have no knowledge who paid for everything but I do. And I am, as everyone else with me, in your debt._  
  
 _The journey was as pleasant as it could be. Everyone is in good health._  
  
 _I can only imagine how much work you must be doing. I would implore you to not neglect your health during this time._  
  
 _I am unable to write much. Caelan has told me he has to leave soon. He is holding my mother at bay while I write this. I am yet again in awe of the men you keep in your company. Please convey my regards to Irwin._  
  
 _Please take care of yourself._  
  
 _I will see you in a day, my Lord._  
  
 _ ~~Lady Sa~~_  
  
 _Sansa_  
  
  
  
Sandor folded the letter into careful pieces, not wanting to tarnish such a memento.  
  
He imagined her hiding and crafting a letter for him and the thought made him snort. Sansa Stark, the very imagery of propriety, hiding from her mother and crafting a letter to her intended. It made Sandor feel like he was a green boy again, for he himself was hiding from Ray and sending letters to his lady love. Mayhaps other people experienced such things in their teen years such prospect of a relationship never came to Sandor’s life, not one where he found himself _yearning_ for someone with such an intensity, that he was willing to go against the wishes of Ray for them.  
  
He read the note, again. And again and again. And a few times more.  
  
Her writing was feminine and beautiful. The cursive neat on the papers, the loops uniform and the dots prominent. He read every word until he could close his eyes and still picture them behind his lids.  
  
She had missed his company. Perhaps she meant the company of not just him but Caelan, Irwin and Ray but Sandor indulged himself in believing that she had missed his company just as much as he had missed hers. He wished he could tell her how empty his own weeklong journey was without her company.  
  
She was _delighted_ by his letter. No one had ever been delighted to receive anything from him. Mayhaps those who received alms were grateful to him but no one had ever been delighted because gave them something as insignificant as a letter.  
  
She was _concerned_ for him. It would be remiss not to recount the benefactor that Ray was and how much he cared for Sandor but Sandor never had a woman fawning over him. His mother was taken from him at birth and he had faint memories of sister, a girl with a round face and raven hair. Whoever she was, whatever sort of a sister she was, he never knew for his Agnor had told him she died when Sandor was two. Whether it was an illness, an injury, he knew not. He suspected that Gregor had a hand, just as that monster did in every misery that faced anyone graced with the Clegane name. And so Sandor never had any female care in his life, not from a mother, not from a sister, not from a companion. He had heard of how mothers would make broths for their boys when they had fever, had heard of how sisters would put salve over recklessly acquired injuries with gentle admonitions, had heard of how lovers would find solace in peaceful moments. He had _heard_ it all but had never _experienced_ any for himself. The notion that Sansa Stark was concerned about his well being spread a warmth through his chest and made his heart constrict.  
  
He heard a voice call for him from the room outside.  
  
He looked down at the folded paper in his hands, the writing faintly visible on the surface. His thumb brushed over the raised surface of the words etched within.  
  
He wished he could write her more letters. He knew they would be equally as uncouth as the first one was for his words lacked the grace hers held. However, sending a letter meant receiving one and that was a wonderful prospect. But he couldn’t send another. He had too much work and he didn’t want to risk her being scorned by her mother should their perilous adventures be discovered.  
  
He had waited so long for the company of someone in his life.  
  
For the first time in three decades, the prospect of happiness was within his reach and if it begged a day’s patience, he would benevolently grant it.  
  
He would meet her at the end of the aisle in a day.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this chapter is mostly a filler but I will not apologize for the fluff because trust me, good things only last a while ;)
> 
> Next up, ze wedding.


	13. Of The House Clegane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all hear them wedding bells?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having a shitty day myself so here's some wedding fluff to put some joy out into the universe. x

  
Her heart was in her throat.  
  
The gown was surreal, surpassing her original conception by leaps and bounds.  
  
Her hands kept smoothing the skirt, fingers reverentially touching the silk.  
  
She had been looking forward to this day since she was a young girl.  
  
Part of it was exactly how she had envisioned it. The gown was something out of a dream. She was going to wear the cloak of House Stark, the one that had been handed down for generations. The comfortable weight of it hanging on her shoulder only served to remind her how different this was from what she had envisioned.  
  
She had always dreamt of a northern wedding, despite knowing that all the Society weddings were done in Baelor’s Sept in King’s Landing. She wanted the same splendour, the same grandeur, but in her own home in the North. She wanted the solemn vows to be witnessed by a tree bleeding red sap in blessing.  
  
But more than anything else, the one thing that was unequivocally present in every version of a wedding she had dreamt was her father’s presence in it.  
  
In no scenario had she ever thought that he would not hold her arm within his, gently lead her down the petalled aisle and deliver her to her future. He would take her palm softly in his, raise it slowly and lay it gently in the waiting hands of her husband, a look of promise and pleading would pass between the two men, her protectors. Her father would then be one who would stand behind her and remove the Stark cloak, leaving her bereft of his name but never his love. He would gently fold the cloak with care and take his place among the witness, silent tears of separation on his face.  
  
She wanted him here, she wanted him with her.  
  
A hand rose to her chest, physically attempting to temper the sadness that would leave her sobbing relentlessly minutes before her nuptials.  
  
Even if he were here, Sansa wouldn’t wish for Robb to walk her down the aisle. He did not deserve that privilege of leading her on a walk that was meant for men who cared for her, not ones who abandoned her and left her to fend for herself. Perhaps Bran could have escorted her but his presence was required at home. The burden was thus passed on to Rickon, a boy who still stumbled on his feet. She indulged his enthusiasm for the role, for she had never seen the boy happier at ever being given any other responsibility. She had spied on Rickon practicing a languid walk in the backyard yesterday. It warmed her heart to see how seriously the boy took his first big duty.  
  
It gave her some consolation that her groom was the only thing in this whole arrangement that did not suit her ‘dream wedding’ but only in the best way possible.  
  
Sansa had envisioned a Society man, someone with handsome features and gallant like a knight. That was all before she understood the cruelty hidden under their visage.  
  
She instead got someone with a half-burnt face who was anything but a knight. And she was fond of him all the more for it.  
  
After reading his letter - a pleasant surprise in itself - she had spent the night dreaming of him thundering through the front doors, leaving her whole staff screaming and running. He came towards her in her dream and cradled her softly against his chest, large hands securing her to his warmth. She dreamt that he took her away, ran away with her and took her to a meadow. His eagerness to see her was endearing and she wished he would know that if she had any battle prowess in her, that she would break free of her home and run to him.  
  
Then again, she didn’t need to run to him for she was going to be his in a short while.  
  
“We are ready for you, Sansa.” Her mother called from outside.  
  
She smiled, remembering the same words from the night of the party, when her mother had called for her to join the room filled with potential suitors downstairs.  
  
Two months since, so much had changed.  
  
She walked to the door, taking a deep breath before pushing down the handle and pulling the door open.  
  
Her mother fawned over her in an instance, hands flying over her dress, completing each pattern and stitch. There was a thorn between her mother and her. Ever since that evening, Sansa did not make any effort of confronting or consoling her mother. The weeklong trip on the road was the only time they spoke and the conversations were started by her mother who sounded apologetic.  
  
Over her mother’s shoulder, she saw Arya gaping at her, eyes moist and brimming. Rickon stood beside her, his face morphed in confusion. Once her mother moved aside to dab her leaking eye, Sansa moved towards her siblings.  
  
Arya wore a pink gown, the dress looking odd yet strangely beautiful on her.  
  
“You look beautiful, Sansa.” the girl whispered.  
  
Sansa opened her arms, welcoming the embrace she knew her sister wanted. Thin arms went around her bodice as Arya buried her face in the folds of her skirt. Under Sansa’s hands, she could feel the girl sobbing quietly. She ran her hand over the girl’s hair. When Arya pulled back, her face was wet and morose and Sansa fetched a discarded piece of cloth to wipe the traces of tears from the girl’s face.  
  
“You should get over your fear of looking like a girl. Because that gown looks divine on you. Oh, the boys you will be fending off today!” she remarked, drawing a scoff from her sister and a smile from her mother.  
  
She bent at her hips, bringing her eye level with her perplexed brother. He wore breeches and doublet decorated with the insignia of House Stark. The craftsmen in Sansa assessed the garment for mistakes, for stitches she could have done better. He looked adorably handsome.  
  
“Who is this little handsome Lord in front of me?” she asked, flicking his nose lightly.  
  
“Is me! Rickon!” he exclaimed.  
  
“Oh goodness. I almost didn’t recognize you!” she said, peppering his face with kisses.  
  
“Stop Sansy, Stop!” He pleaded, small hands feebly attempting to push her away.  
  
Sansa stood straight, carefully rustling his hair.  
  
“Are you ready to walk your sister down the aisle?” she asked the boy.  
  
“There has been a change.” her mother said beside her. “I was hoping I could walk you down the aisle?”  
  
“Mother, what-”  
  
“I know things have not been….pleasant among us and it was all my fault. We owe you for everything you have sacrificed for us. I was just as old as you when I got married and I remember how harrowing it was. It was wrong of me to add to your distress.”  
  
“What about the tradi-”  
“The tradition of the Society has burdened you enough as is, wouldn’t you say so, my darling?” she asked with a smile. “Your father would have been so proud to be able to walk his wonderful daughter down the aisle. I make a poor substitute but allow me this honor, Sansa. Please?”  
  
Tears threatened to spill from her eyes at her mother’s request.  
  
“Of course, mother.” she said, smiling at the woman.  
  
Arya and Rickon were sent to take their place among the audience and Lady Catelyn lead her daughter to the hallway near the entrance of the sept.  
  
Lady Catelyn looked at her daughter, who nodded her assent. She then looked at the page standing nearby who signalled the orchestra to change the music.  
  
A sombre and softer tone began flowing through the halls beyond the door.  
  
Sansa had heard the music her whole childhood and had always wondered what it would be like to be the one who walked with so much attention drawn towards them.  
  
Her mother grasped her arm tightly, smiling brightly at her daughter.  
  
Sansa squared her shoulders and straightened her posture, Septa Mordane’s words about a straight chin flowing through her memories.  
  
The massive doors of the hall pulled open. In front of her lay an aisle with crimson carpet and pink and white petals adorning the path. On the either side were people who stood in attention, their bodies turned towards her like sunflowers to the sun. The altar was illuminated, a light falling on the formidable man like light from the heavens.  
  
The yellow and black on his doublet looked proud and strong, if such words could be associated with clothing. His hair was pulled back into a bun, his scars on display to the world. He stood tall and she could see his greatsword strapped around the waist.  
  
Her legs moved on their own accord, her eyes trained on him.  
  
She was like a lost ship in the vast open sea and he her anchor.  
  
She moved toward him with a single-minded focus; the music, the people, the decor blending in the background.  
  
Her foot hit something and she looked down and realized that she had walked to the stairs. She bent a little, lifting the skirt to walk up the stairs. He held out his hand to her and Catelyn Stark lifted her daughter’s hand and placed it in the Lord’s hand gently.  
  
Warmth seeped into Sansa from where they touched and his grip tightened before relaxing.  
  
Her mother moved behind her, unfastling the cloak.  
  
A burden lifted. A debt paid. A vow kept.  
  
She looked up at the man in front of her.  
  
Her eyes swept around his face, the jagged scars and the bumpy nose the same as how she remembered. The unscarred side of his face quirked up in a smile.  
  
His scarred side, the one that looked horrifying was out for the world to see. That side of him was unrelenting, unforgiving, strong and astute. The smooth side, the one that showed endearment and gentleness was only for her eyes and the eyes of the Gods.  
  
“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” the septon said in a clear voice.  
  
Mister Hermadur stepped forward, holding the folded Clegane cloak on a decorative pillow. Lord Clegane took the cloak with a gracious smile. The Lord stepped around her, unfurling the cloak behind her back. From the corner of the eye, she could see the yellow cloak framing the back of her gown. The Lord’s hand moved under her chin, clasping the cloak at her neckline. She looked down at the fastening and saw that the clasp was in the shape of wings. Red wings.  
  
 _Little Bird_  
  
The Lord gently moved her hair from under the cloak and took his place in front of her.  
  
“My lords and my ladies, we stand here in sight of Gods and men to witness the union of a man and a woman. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”  
  
Lord Clegane raised a palm towards her and Sansa did not hesitate before offering her hand. The septon tied their hands with a red ribbon, encasing their warmth together.  
  
“Let it be known that Lord Sandor Duncan Clegane and Lady Sansa Adelaide Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the light of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”  
  
The septon took the ribbon apart with care while their hands remained closed together, unwilling to let go.  
  
“Look upon each other and say the words.”  
  
Tears in her eyes, Sansa blinked rapidly, trying to clear the water from her vision so that she could see her _husband_ as she vowed her life to him.  
  
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his as he is mine; from this day until the end of my days.” her voice gained momentum as she finished her vows.  
  
In contrast to hers, his voice boomed and rang out clear and challenging in the silent halls of the sept.  
  
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is _mine_ from this day until the end of my days. With this kiss, I pledge my love.” he announced, taking a step towards her.  
  
As his face loomed above hers, he gave her a small smile and a wink that took away any remnants of fear away from her. A palm rose and cradled her face, the gesture familiar and warm.  
  
She closed her eyes as his face drew closer. She began anticipating the kiss, a worry nagging her that she would not be good at kissing. She had never kissed before. What if the first thing she did was disappoint him with a bad kiss?  
  
“Fret not, Little Bird.” he whispered, voice low just for her.  
  
She felt his nose bump against her playfully and she smiled, her eyes still closed.  
  
His lips kissed the smile on her face. She was instantly lost in the sensation of chapped lips and calloused thumbs and her hand rose on their own volition towards his waist and grabbed a fistful of his doublet.  
  
His lips encased her and a groan from him and a hand was splayed along her waist.  
  
When the Lord drew away, she opened her eyes slowly looking at his earnest face and bright eyes.  
  
She grinned at him, all teeth and happiness and his hold on her remained unwavered even as the Septon announced Sandor and Sansa of the House Clegane as a wedded couple of the Society.  
  
The thundering applause remained unheard as she lost herself in his steel tinted eyes, the septon’s words a litany in her eardrums.  
  
 _Sansa of the House Clegane_  



	14. Cherish That Which You Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sipping cola*

  
“Of course. We would be happy to host you should you ever want to visit the West.”  
  
Sansa chirped at the hundredth couple who made their way to their table with gifts in their hands.  
  
The boy in him kept glancing at the growing pile of wedding gifts. He wanted to sequester them all in his chambers and plow through the contents. He had enough money to buy all these gifts on his own but there was a strange thrill to presents.  
  
Except, every time someone handed them a carefully wrapped package, they also brandished them with fake smiles and lengthy courtesies. They smiled and cooed over the new couple as though they held the couple’s happiness to a high regard. Some also used the opportunity to subtly remark on their unusual match.  
  
Not everyone in the audience were miserable cunts, however. Some came by and wished them and left their gifts and went their way. Only a few came by and made jabs but each one of those comments left a sour mood in the table. After hearing such comments, he asked Ray to escort any more people away from his table.  
  
Once Sansa realized that no one else was coming her way, she visibly relaxed.  
  
She had taken each remark, the good and the bad alike, with trained composure. She was pleasant with everyone and more so with the Houses of the West. He assumed she was trying to forge good relations with his neighbours but he wished he could tell her it was a lost cause. House Lannister’s downfall had left a vacuum, one that was profited the most by House Clegane. The fact that a hitherto unheard House rose to prominence over theirs was a sore spot for most of the Western Houses. However, he did not fault Sansa for having no knowledge of such intricacies and let her make her courteous talk with people while he sat and grunted like an animal at most of them.  
  
Due to the incessant interruption by their guests, the plate in front of Sansa was piled with untouched food.  
  
“You should eat, my Lady.” he gently reminded.  
  
She looked down at her plate with scrutiny. “I feel like eating something sweet. Are there any pies or pastries around?” she asked.  
  
He smiled to himself. A month ago, the girl did not even eat much and now she was voicing her likes and dislikes. It made him strangely proud. He beckoned the nearest server and asked them to fetch an assortment of desserts. Moments later, three people appeared with six plates piled with different desserts.  
  
Sansa gave him a blinding grin before beckoning her brother towards herself. The young boy, who spent the ceremony baffled and confused perked at the sudden attention Sansa gave him. He made his way towards their chair, standing between the two of them and looking at the plates of dessert with a gluttonous gaze. Without a chair, it became difficult for the boy to look at the varied options of confectionaries and he struggled with his short height.  
  
“Up, Sansy! Up!” he pleaded, hands held out for his sister.  
  
He saw Sansa hesitate. Young boys were uncouth with table manners. Hells, he was a Lord and he still was a savage while eating. That young boy would no doubt make a mess of Sansa’s remarkable evening gown, the one she had changed to after the nuptials.  
  
“Here, boy. How about you sit with me and Sansa can feed you, hmm?” he asked the boy who looked at his lap before giving a single nod and clambering up his leg.  
  
He caught the boy under his armpits and raised him to sit sideways on his lap. He secured the boy to his chest with an arm around his body as he kept trying to reach out to the platter on his own.  
  
Slowly yet surely, Sansa and Sandor tempered the boy’s restlessness. Sandor kept a firm grip on the boy while Sansa took spoonful of each cake and confectionery and fed the boy with animated gestures. Sansa would feed the boy and then sample the desserts herself, sharing mischievous looks with her brother.  
  
He was enthralled by how beautiful she looked.  
  
When he had seen her walk down the aisle, a surprising show of strength and solidarity between mother and daughter, he felt like he was in the presence of the Gods himself; not the meaningless stone statues behind him but the girl in front of him, all ivory skin, alabaster gown and aflamed hair. She looked so ethereal that he wanted to fall on his knees and worship her. Every step she had taken towards him had sent his heart galloping at a faster pace.  
  
And then he’d he stiffen before the kiss. Reassuring words and a small touch later, she was smiling and he had felt compelled to steal that smile for himself.  
  
Now, a child in his lap and her loving attention towards said child spread a warmth in his chest, made him want a family of his own, yearn for something he thought he would never have.  
  
He grabbed a napkin from the table, gently dabbing away crushed raspberries from Rickon’s chin as the boy asked Sansa to give him more of the apple pies.  
  
He chanced a look at Ray beyond Sansa’s shoulder and was surprised to find the man smiling fondly at him, his eyes glistening. Irwin was behind a pillar, his tongue deep into a serving wenches mouth. Ina and Caelan were sitting with their hands intertwined in a corner. The last of Sandor’s staff’s arrival bought Ina to the capital and seeing Caelan run up to her and lift her in the air had been a reward in itself.  
  
Once satisfied with all the attention, Rickon clambered off his lap and ran around the hall burning off the newly acquired energy.  
  
The music changed from a low tempo to a cheerful one and Sandor groaned in realization of what was to come. Sansa looked at him with scrunched brows of confusion.  
  
Irwin, the damned arse, sauntered to the centre of the hall.  
  
“May we have a dance from the Lord and Lady Clegane?” he asked dramatically and the room erupted in cheers.  
  
Sandor stood begrudgingly after glaring at Irwin. Retribution would come in the morning sparring session, he vowed. He stood and held out a palm for Sansa who gave him an amused smile. She slipped her hand into his paws and he led her to the floor below.  
  
With as much gallantry as he could, he stood in the centre of the empty floor and bowed his head before commencing the dance. Hands intertwined like they found home in each other and one of Sandor’s hands rested easily at the base of her spine while hers rested lightly on his chest.  
  
They swayed with the beat and it took intense concentration on Sandor’s part to not step on his newly acquired wife’s nimble feet.  
  
“Are you having a good day, my Lady?” he asked in a whisper.  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
Sandor frowned. Something was amiss.  
  
“Is something wrong, Little Bird?”  
  
“I mean no offense, my Lord. It is just that I never thought my father would not be there at my wedding.”  
  
Seven hells! He hadn’t even thought of that!  
  
He had been surprised to find Lady Stark leading Sansa down the aisle. It was against every tradition that a woman be led down to her nuptials by another. He had never heard of such a thing in the Society. He had felt nothing but relief when Agnor Clegane died. The world had not lost anything with the passing of a man who sat by and watched as his whole family suffered under Gregor’s tyranny. The same, however, could not be said for Eddard Stark, who was still respected and remembered fondly by even the basest of Stark household staff.  
  
The hand at the base of her spine stiffened and he pulled her gently towards himself. She came willingly, the hand on his chest skimming around to wrap around his waist and his grip on her tightened more. Her head slotted against his neck and he rested his cheek on her hair.  
  
“I wish he could be here, my Lady. He would be very proud of you.” he said earnestly.  
  
He felt her brushing her face closer to his body, over his heart, almost like a kitten.  
  
They held each other in silence and swayed slowly, the floor around them began getting occupied by more couples. Bodies swayed around them, lovers pulled together closely and acquaintances at respectful distances. He lost track of time as to how long he stood there, with Sansa St- Clegane, _Sansa Clegane_ in his arms, their bodies barely moving to the music anymore.  
  
He felt content.  
  
A hand tapped his shoulder and his hand curled protectively around Sansa before turning and finding Ray smiling at him.  
  
“May I steal your bride?” he asked.  
  
He smiled down at Sansa who nodded her agreement and Sandor slipped out carefully after depositing Sansa with the man he trusted his life with.  
  
He went back to his place on the table on the dais. He took a languid sip of his wine, looking at his _wife_ twirling in Ray’s arm. Ray was saying something to her and if her laugh was any indication, Ray was surely showering compliments on her. Or telling her more about Sandor’s teenage exploits. He could only guess. Irwin was swaying with a woman in a corner, the woman in his arm casting him sultry looks. He had no doubt that if he looked at their corner after a few moments, he would not be able to spot Irwin for the man would be elsewhere, in another room, under the woman’s skirt. Caelan and Ina were in each other’s arms on the floor, not a breath of gap between their bodies. Ina pulled her head away to rise on the tips of her toes to place a tender kiss on Caelan’s.  
  
A servant from Winterfell Keep refilled his goblet and the larger jug before him. He tried remembering her name so that he could thank her. Leila? Leena? Lydia!  
  
“Many thanks, Lydia.”  
  
The woman’s eyes widened before she gave him a tense nod and scurried away.  
  
Sandor took a deep long breath.  
  
He was surrounded by friends and family, the two things he never thought he’d have. Sometimes he looked at his life and it surprised him how far he had come. He had a guide in Ray, brothers in Caelan and Irwin and now a partner in Sansa. It made his chest constrict that he had things in his life that he once thought he was unworthy of. It also scared him; nay, _terrified_ him.  
  
He had nothing once, where his only fear was Gregor and his cruelty. He feared for his life. Then again, when his face was pressed into the fireplace, the scream from his throat lost as he swallowed lungful after lungful of bitter smoke, he had wished for the sweet relief of death. Life did not hold value when sharing a roof with a monster.  
  
He looked at Sansa as she twirled around with Ray, laughing as she spoke to him. Her happiness warmed his heart. He looked down at the goblet in his hand. He decided against drinking more wine. He would retire for the night soon and if the night proceeded the way he was anticipating it to, he would need to keep himself in control. He did not know whether girls in the Society were taught anything at all about fucking but even in his limited experience, he knew girls like Sansa were probably not as forthcoming as girls from the taverns. He would need to be patient with her and coax her. And he would not be able to do that if he were wine drunk. Besides, he felt drained of energy and did not feel like he wanted to deal with a headache the next morning.  
  
Caelan approached his table with Ina in his arms and Sandor found himself smiling at the loving pair.  
  
“Congratulations, milord. Your new wife is beyond beautiful. I hope this marriage brings you joy” Ina said. Sandor thanked her for her kind words.  
  
“I wish you a blessed union, My Lord. I am sure that Lady Sansa will make your life very happy.”  
  
Even through their well-practiced words, Sandor could tell that they were a little deep in their cups already. “Thank you Caelan.” Sandor said before looking at him with narrowed eyes. “I did not think you two would stay out this late after two months of separation.”  
  
The pair giggled at each other before Caelan turned to Sandor. “Well, my Lord, I was hoping you would excuse us for the evening. We wish to retire.”  
  
Ina blushed and ducked her head into Caelan’s shoulder. Sandor laughed at the two. “Of course. Go make up for lost time.”  
  
Ina looked at the abandoned jug in front of the Lord that was filled to the brim with wine. “Giving up drinking so early into the marriage, milord?” she asked, her emerald eyes glowing with mirth.  
  
“No, I think I’ve had enough for the night.”  
  
“And let all that good wine go to waste?” Caelan asked, a mock horrifying look on his face.  
  
Sandor shrugged. “Perhaps you two could make some use of it?” he asked the couple.  
  
Caelan looked at Ina who gave him an impassive shrug. The man took the jug in his hand and laughed.  
  
“Turn down good wine? Who does that?” he asked and Sandor laughed.  
  
The couple wished him their pleasantries and made their way towards the exit. Sandor’s eyes lingered on them for a few minutes before going back to admiring his wife. She was standing away from Ray, still conversing with the man. It looked like she was done dancing as she made her way over to their table.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, watching his _wife_ making her way over to him.  
  
He could not wait to begin his life with her.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Finishes cola with a loud belch* I'm sorry, you were saying?


	15. So Long as it Lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unusual wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me begin by saying, sorry for being such a dick about the late update. 
> 
> I am leaving for home in a week and my boss of course this month HAD to update all our HR documents and I have to revise them all before leaving and your girl has been hella busy. Also, I had been struggling with the upcoming chapters so I didn't post anything until I was absolutely sure of my work, which I am now, so here goes.

  
“- should have seen him when the dancing instructor’s feet the first time!”  
  
Sansa laughed as Ray told her of the first time Lord Clegane learnt ballroom dancing. It was almost as though once Lord Clegane became a Lord, Ray and Irwin began doing everything they could to embarrass him, dancing lessons being first of such endeavors. .  
  
“If I did not know any better, I would say you enjoyed watching your Lord flounder his attempts.” she said conspiratorially.  
  
“Mayhaps a little, yes.” the man laughed and Sansa followed with a giggle.  
  
Perhaps it was the wine in her belly or the general spirit of the room around her, but she could not assuage the giddiness that bubbled within her.  
  
When the songs changed, Sansa decided that she did not want to dance any longer and would rather spend time with her Lord Husband. She smiled politely at Ray and exchanged pleasantries with the man before making her way up to her husband, whose face proclaimed the tiredness he must have tried hiding before.  
  
“Are you tired, my Lord? Should we retire?” she asked gently once she sat next to him.  
  
He looked out at the room around them, the people merrily engaged in conversation.  
  
He gave her a simple nod and rose from his chair, the loud scraping of wood against floor drawing everyone’s attention towards the table.  
  
“Lady Clegane and I would like to retire to our chambers. We are honored that you have graced our union with your presence. Please continue your revelries.” he declared, holding out his hand for Sansa. They left the room in a flurry of applaud and loud cheers. A carriage awaited for them outside but Lord Clegane brushed it off, choosing his destier instead.  
  
Sansa had a brief moment of panic. Lord Clegane’s destrier was as massive as the man. The horse stood tall and proud and the gleam of its black fur enhanced the muscles on the horse. Even just standing there, the horse looked formidable and looked like it could trample her within minutes. The loud huff it emitted had her flinching back involuntary.  
  
Lord Clegane stepped forward, brushing the horse’s mane. Sansa looked at him with wide eyes but her fear dissipated some as the horse began accepting his master’s ministrations.  
  
“Don’t go acting around like a brute, Stranger. She is your Lady now. Be good to her.” she heard the man gently murmur.  
  
Lord Clegane guided her in front of the horse where she was in line with the animal’s gaze.  
  
“Sansa, meet Stranger Clegane, the partner in battlefield, trampler of men, horror of barn boys and stealer of apples. Stranger, meet Sansa Clegane, my wife.” Lord Clegane introduced woman to horse and horse to woman with all the seriousness in his voice. “Go on. Pet him. Slowly. Make sure he sees your hand before you pet him. Yes, just like that. Gentle at first and firm later.”  
  
Sansa followed his instructions word for word, slowly extended her hand within the horse’s view and then touched his fur, which to her astonishment soft and supple. As the tremors in her hand receded and gained confidence, she let out a coo at the horse which the animal accepted with a snort.  
  
“Alright, no need to become best of friends.” Lord Clegane chastised gently, pulling Sansa away from the animal who was clearly falling prey to her charms.  
  
He lifted her atop the horse and then hefted himself up, placing an arm around her waist and riding away to the manor Lord Clegane had rented.  
  
Once they reached the manor, Lord Clegane led her down to his chambers with his hand placed lightly on her back. He opened the doors to an opulent room that overlooked the Narrow Sea. She walked to the window in a trance, the endless sea and the shining moon more enticing than the room with all its flourishes. She had only ever heard tales of golden beaches and blue seas and the moon’s reflection on the vast expanse of the water but watching it for the first time, she felt enchanted.  
  
“Uh, please make yourself comfortable. Your trunks have been placed in that corner. I need to fetch something.”  
  
She heard the door click behind her.  
  
Make herself comfortable? Was she supposed to take off her gown? And wear something lighter? Or did he want her naked? She had a robe. Perhaps she could wear that?  
  
She tried untying the tight knots at the back of her dress but she couldn’t reach them. She twisted and grunted in displeasure, trying to pry the gown away from her body.  
  
She had evidently spent too long flailing about for the door opened and Lord Clegane walked in, his fist curled around something.  
  
“Is something amiss, my Lady?”  
  
“The gown, my Lord. I cannot reach the ties.”  
  
“Here. Let me help you.”  
  
He placed the box on a table nearby and stood behind her, attempting to untie the knots. Colourful words spilled forth as the Lord struggled with the too thin ties with his too large fingers. One moment Sansa was holding her hair aside for the Lord to do his work and in another moment a knife sliced through the ties and her dress began falling down unhindered, leaving her standing in a thin shift and stocking.  
  
Sansa gasped in shock and Lord Clegane began muttering hurried apologies. Sansa gathered the tattered gown and held it to her chest. The seamstress in her thanked the lucky stars that only the laces at the back had been damaged and she could easily replace those and preserve the evening gown she had worked hard to make.  
  
He turned away from her. “My apologies. The ties were too hard to untie. Uh, I will go um, wash my face while you change.”  
  
Sansa stood with her eyes pinched close until she heard water splashing in the room nearby.  
  
But what of her predicament now? What was she supposed to wear on her wedding night and was she even supposed to wear anything at all? All she knew about the wedding night was that she must lie still and let her Lord take his pleasure. No one ever told her if she should wear clothes to bed and if so, then what kind.  
  
She bundled up her dress and left it draping over a chair.  
  
She looked at the four poster bed where the inevitable was supposed to happen.  
  
She looked down at the shift she wore. Her mother had instructed her to make the shift enticing, lined with lace and silky soft material. Perhaps it would not be vain to admit that the shift she had made was indeed beautiful. Mayhaps the Lord would not be opposed to finding her in bed wearing just the shift.  
  
She scrambled to the bed, lifting the furs over her. Looking around, she decided she should probably place herself at the centre of the bed. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she toyed with the furs. Should she place the furs around herself? Should she cover her lap? Should she...  
  
Her musing was interrupted as the Lord walked out, dressed in simple tunic and breeches. He retrieved the box and walked towards Sansa. Noticing her sitting in a thin shift, he frowned.  
  
Did he wish for her to be naked instead?  
  
He sat down on the foot of the bed, as far from her as the bed could permit.  
  
“I had something made for you, my Lady.” he said, toying with his hand before showing her the box. She reached out with shaking hands and took the box, lifting the lid.  
  
“A mine on the border of Lannisport and Casterly Rock had caches of such gems. Garnet, my Lady. We have scarcely begun working with them and I, uh, thought you would like to have the first of the processed stone. It also, uh, remind me of your hair.”  
  
The red stone - Garnet, the Lord said - sat on a perch, surrounded by glittering diamond, bound by a rose gold band.  
  
She had seen rubies before. Her mother had a necklace with rubies that Sansa liked to wear when she was a child. But those rubies were somehow paler, more hollow.  
  
The garnet stone instead looked like it had more life. The red of the stone was darker, deeper and livelier. The pale rosiness of the band enunciated the shine of the stone and the diamonds elevated its deep hue.  
  
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.  
  
“Do you- uh, like it, my Lady?”  
  
Sansa looked up at the man who was looking at her with worry in his eyes. She nodded at him rapidly, eager to assure him that she liked the ring, liked it very much indeed.  
  
He moved closer to her and took the box from her hand. Sansa lifted her right hand toward him and he took the ring out carefully, rubbing the band between his fingers before slipping it on her finger.  
  
The ring took its place at the base of her finger, the pink of the band and the red of the stone remarkable against the unblemished pale skin of hers.  
  
“Beautiful.” he whispered and she agreed. The ring was extraordinary.  
  
She looked up at him to thank him, only to realize that he was looking at her, not the ring, when he gave the compliment.  
  
A blush, very reminiscent of the garnet ring she now wore, rose from her chest to her face.  
  
Lord Clegane leaned forward and after a brief moment of deliberation, slotted his lips over hers. A swipe of his tongue wet her lips and Sansa gasped, Lord Clegane taking that moment of distraction to open her mouth further to deepen the kiss. She felt the need to ground herself, to hold him, and a hand rose to his shoulder, gripping his tunic.  
  
The Lord leaned further, pushing Sansa into the bed. He began kissing down her neck towards her chest and Sansa stiffened, the Lord’s looming figure reminded Sansa of everything she had heard about the marriage bed.  
  
Blood. Tears. Pain.  
  
Lord Clegane stopped his ministrations and looked up at Sansa’s face.  
  
Whatever he saw there must have dejected him for he flinched back and sat away from her. Shame and regret flooded Sansa. Marriage bed was supposed to be the helm of pleasure for men. She had to bear the pain, however cruel, for the fruit of it was borne in the face of the children she would be blessed with.  
  
“I am sorry, my Lord.”  
  
“Please. Do not apologize, my Lady. I should not have been so forward with you.”  
  
“But my Lord, it is within your right.” she mumbled.  
  
The Lord’s head snapped towards her. “My right?” he asked, confused.  
  
“Your right in the marriage bed.”  
  
The man looked at her with narrowed eyes. “What have you been taught of the marriage bed, my Lady?”  
  
“Lie still and let the Lord take his pleasure.” she recited, verbatim from the lessons of her youth. “That I must bear the pain for my reward will be the children I bear for you.”  
  
The man looked away from her. She did not dare look up at the anger that must surely be in his eyes. His gravelly voice, soft as a whisper, called her attention.  
  
“My Lady, the marriage bed is not supposed to give you pain, not when it is done right.” Sansa looked at the man incredulously as he continued. “Se- Copulation is meant to be enjoyable. If there is any pain involved beyond the inevitable first time, then it is simply wrong.”  
  
Sansa gave his word some thought. Septa Mordane had refused to talk about sexual intercourse with her. She had given her brief instructions that always made it sound like it was a burden that the women had to bear for their husband. She had never felt too comfortable asking her mother otherwise.  
  
Her Lord Husband let out a huge sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. Looking away from her, he said. “My Lady, I know not what you have been told of the marriage bed but I assume none of that is in favour of your pleasure. I want you to know that while I may have killed and maimed many in the battlefield, I have never taken pleasure from bedding unwilling women and-”  
  
“But my Lord, I am not unwilling-”  
  
“-and causing someone pain in what is supposed to be a pleasurous act is not something I wish to be a part of-”  
  
“But I-”  
  
“I will not start the marriage by hurting you, Sansa! I cannot be a willing participant in your misery.” he yelled. “You are the one good thing that has ever happened to me! The one fucking pure thing I have in my life! And I will not ruin it by raping you for a few momentsof pleasure!”  
  
Everything Sansa wanted to say, all the pleas to bed her lest she prove to be an unwilling wife, died in her throat.  
  
“I do not know what lies they have taught you. I do not care for it. I will not lay with you until you ask me to, until we are comfortable enough with each other to not just bare our souls but our bodies as well. Sleep now, think no more of it.”  
  
He moved to the spot beside her, lifting the thick furs over himself.  
  
Her body seemed incapable of moving as his words kept repeating itself in her mind. She was ashamed to admit that she felt relieved at her husband’s words. Though she had begun liking him, had formed a tentative friendship with him, she did not know if she was comfortable to share her body with him. But she also felt like she had failed. Failed Septa Mordane in all her instructions of servitude of the marriage bed. What if Mother found out that her marriage was not consummated? Would she be disappointed in Sansa?  
  
“Lie down, Sansa. Please?”  
  
Sansa turned to the man beside her who looked at her pleadingly.  
  
“What if they ask to see the bloodied sheets, my Lord?” she asked, worry seeping every word.  
  
A look of steel strength took over his eyes. “Then red sheets they shall have, stained with their own blood. I will kill anyone who seeks to make such a barbaric request.” The Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in deeply. “Sansa, please, just let this matter be. We should both rest. We have a long journey ahead of us in the matter of a few days.”  
  
The man turned away from her and Sansa turned to the other side, breathing in through her nose, willing for her heart to calm. She thumbed the band of her ring absentmindedly.  
  
She wanted to worry. She wanted to fret over her mother’s reaction at her daughter’s inability to perform her duty. But Lord Clegane was right, she needed to rest. In the cocoon of the safety promised by her husband, Sansa closed her eyes, submitting to the exhaustion of the day.  
  
She woke mere hours later, a knock on the door interrupting her deep slumber.  
  
“Who is it?” the chest near her grumbled.  
  
Sansa’s eyes shot open when she realized that in the depth of her sleep, she had curled around the Lord’s arm.  
  
“Sandor. Wake up. It’s important.”  
  
Sansa pulled back as Lord Clegane got off the bed and went towards the door. Sansa dragged the furs to cover her thin shift.  
  
“What is it?” Lord Clegane asked, his voice clogged with sleep.  
  
“A letter from Winterfell Keep came mere hours ago. The Keep was attacked and Lord Bran has been gravely injured.”  
  
Sansa’s breath was caught in her throat as her husband glanced at her over his shoulders.  
  
“And Sandor?” Ray said, asking for his Lord’s attention. “There’s more.”  
  
The older man swallowed painfully, lips wobbling in weakness very uncharacteristic to the man.  
  
“Caelan, he’s- he’s-”  
  
“Ray, what is it?” Lord Clegane asked, horror evident on his face.  
  
“He’s dead, Sandor. Caelan’s dead.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Y'all just gotta wait for the next chapter for all the answers. 
> 
> Also,  
> Eid al-Adha Mubarak everyone.  
> Have a blessed week.


	16. Sides of a Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - Depiction of a dead body, self depreciating thoughts and a small panic attack of sorts. 
> 
> The chapter starts with Sanor's POV and with every "**" the POV switches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could hand you guys a bar of chocolate for every day I did not update, trust me, I would.   
> I am so extremely sorry for the delay. Work was really hectic and I would come home every evening, throw my face into the pillow and conk out for the next six hours. But I am now on leave so it's all good.

There are times when one expects the Stranger to knock at their door.  
  
When someone is sick, long awaiting the sweet escape of blissful death, loss is not unforseen. It gives the person, and their family a time to mourn, to cherish the people around them for however short a time they have. Every moment spent with them becomes invaluable.  
  
Then there are times when it seems like the Stranger knocked on the wrong door.  
  
As though He had made a wrong turn and taken the wrong soul. One moment, the person lives, healthy and happy and in the next moment, they are gone. It leaves a gaping hole in one’s soul. It’s like a punch to the gut. It is all the more painful because there is no farewell, no parting words, no drawn out declarations of thanksgiving or love.  
  
It is abrupt.  
  
It is brutal.  
  
He was supposed to wake on the first day of his married life to a hearty meal and some sweet kisses. He was supposed to meet his good-mother, assure her that he had not ravaged her daughter the night before. He was supposed to let his new wife spend some time with her family while he made arrangements for travel. He was supposed to dream of a happy married life, of nights spent in a woman’s embrace, of his wife growing fat and full with children, of cradling little ones in his arms. It was supposed to be a day of possibilities.  
How did it come to this?  
  
And Caelan? That boy was anything but unhealthy. He was to be twenty and one in a month. He was talking, just the day before, of how he could not wait to get married to Ina. He was the one among all his men who despite coming from a bad childhood had love in his heart. With Caelan, Sandor could be the big brother he wished he had.  
  
Caelan was family in all but blood.  
  
How could this happen?  
  
He barely registered another set of feet following him and Ray. In a daze, he made his way to where he knew Caelan was. The door to Caelan’s chamber was already open. He slowed to a halt outside the door, his feet hesitant in stepping forward.  
  
If he never went in, he could pretend Caelan wasn’t dead, wasn’t gone.  
  
Ray tugged him inside and Sandor was confronted with horror he had never anticipated.  
  
Caelan’s body was on the floor, his head cradled in Ina’s lap as the woman sobbed uncontrollably. Caelan was still in his night clothes, the breeches knotted loosely, the yellow tunic askew, odd against his now pale skin. There was froth and blood pouring from his gaping mouth and nose and his eyes red, wide open, staring at nothing.  
  
Sandor’s breath halted.  
  
Poison.  
  
He had known death enough to know the faces it took.  
  
Retches drew his attention away momentarily and he noticed that Sansa was beside him, almost hiding behind him, a mouth covering her mouth as she fought the urge to empty her stomach. She looked unwell and Sandor commanded Ray to take her away.  
  
He moved forward and knelt by Ina’s side, softly touching the boy’s downy hair.  
  
How could this happen to him?  
  
**  
  
How could this happen to Caelan?  
  
Ray had barely managed to pull her into an adjoining room when Sansa ran to the sink and emptied her stomach.  
  
She had seen death before. She had seen her father before he was lowered in the crypts of Winterfell. Despite being pale, her father’s face looked peaceful. She remembered thinking that it was perhaps Gods’ grace that at least in death, he had been granted peace.  
  
But she had never seen the kind of horror that was on Caelan’s face.  
  
Caelan, for her, was the jovial one of the Clegane lot. She had never seen him without a smile, his honey skin glowing in the sunlight. His hazel eyes were always full of mirth. And now, there was blood and froth on his mouth, those beautiful brown eyes were eclipsed with red hue and oh Seven, her stomach churned again.  
  
Ray pressed a cool rag on her forehead and gave her a cold glass of water to clean her mouth with. She regained her composure while Ray stood beside her, rag and pitcher ready in his hand should she convulse again.  
  
“How?” she wondered aloud.  
  
**  
  
“How?” he asked, his voice coming out in a whisper.  
  
“I- I don’t know. We...we came back and he...we had just finished… and he- he got up...said he wanted to drink some wine...poured a glass and handed me another and I didn’t even drink. I was so busy listening to him and ...He was talking to me, talking to me and drinking the wine when he just...he began choking...and he fell. H-he just fell and I tried, my Lord, I tried but Caelan...he was...he was just gone. Please do something, my Lord, I beg you. Please.” Ina managed between sobs.  
  
Sandor looked at the table and nearly collapsed. The jug of wine, the only one on the table that had to be the one Caelan drank from, was the one he was served.  
  
Sandor could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  
  
Someone meant to poison him. Someone wanted to kill him.  
  
He looked at Caelan’s body, the pale face, blue lips, red eyes and the horrible lines of blood and froth leaking from his mouth.  
  
It could have been him. It was meant to be him.  
  
  
But it was Caelan and Sandor, he did this.  
  
Fuck!  
  
**  
  
Gods above!  
  
Caelan was poisoned at her wedding.  
  
Someone was carrying poison at her wedding.  
  
It could have been her. It could have been her mother. Her brother. Her sister. Her Lord Husband himself.  
  
And Bran? Oh Sevens! Bran!  
  
“What news of my brother, Ray?” she asked, proprietary long forgotten.  
  
“Your brother was injured, my Lady. The intent was death but your brother yet lives. Maester Luwin says he is better now. Unconscious, but better.”  
  
Bran. Caelan. Two brothers from either side. One dead, another barely alive.  
  
Father. Robb. Bran. Sansa’s head reeled and she thought of her mother who held on to Bran like he was the last hope of salvation for her.  
  
“How does my mother fare, Ray?”  
  
“My Lady, given...everything that has happened, I believed it was imperative that everyone must stay under the same roof. I have sent men for your mother and your siblings to be escorted here. I would imagine that you would want to be with your mother’s side at this...difficult time.”  
  
Sansa looked up at Ray through the tears in her eyes. It never ceased to amaze her the imperturbable judiciousness the man possessed. Considering that Caelan was like a son to the man, he must surely be affected by the loss gravely. Despite the pain of losing a child, the man was ensuring the safety and comfort of everyone around him. As someone who had to constantly ignore her own needs in favour of caring for others, she understood what it felt like to be in inconsolable grief and yet have to shoulder to cry on.  
  
“Ray, I am so sorry for your loss.”  
  
The pillar of strength of House Clegane, the man who raised Sandor Clegane to be the Lord that he was, in that moment _broke_.  
  
Tears spilled from the man’s eyes and he looked away from the younger woman’s gaze.  
  
Closing her eyes, Sansa let the tears fall unbidden.  
  
**  
  
Opening his eyes, Sandor clenched his hands and glared daggers at the innocent wall ahead.  
  
Sandor sat on the bench outside the chambers. Irwin sat next to him, his face just as impassive. Neither spoke a word while the Maester worked on Caelan, confirming what they already knew.  
  
“I did this to him.” Sandor said.  
  
“Sandor, this is in no way your fau-” Irwin began.  
  
“I was served that wine!” Sandor said, the loss and anger constricting his heart. “I was served the wine and I didn’t drink it. Caelan and Ina came by and said they were going to retire for the night. They saw the filled jug and goblet and I told them to take it. I told Caelan to take it and now he is dead. I did this!”  
  
Sandor grabbed at his hair and let out a roar of despair and Irwin reached out to comfort him.  
  
“Sandor, you couldn’t have possibly known that someone meant to poison you.” Irwin said, placing a comforting hand on Sandor’s shoulder. After minutes of silence, the man spoke again. “Do you remember the person who served you the wine?”  
  
“It was Lydia. One of the Stark staff.” Realization dawned on Sandor and he turned to a guard standing nearby. “Go to the Stark villa. Find the woman and bring her here. Take more people with you. Question the House staff and find what you can about the wretched woman.”  
  
Why would a staff from House Stark seek to poison him? He knew Lady Catelyn did not like him much but there was never so much hatred that she would wish for him to die. Who then? He had heard that some men from Winterfell Keep did not favour him or his men. Even if that was enough reason to poison him, they could have done that when he was living and eating under their roof. Why wait until the wedding? Why target him? And what if Sansa had taken a sip of his drink…  
  
“Where’s Sansa?” he asked, suddenly realizing that his wife was nowhere around.  
  
“Raymond took her away when she was starting to get sick. He must have taken her to meet her mother. He arranged for Lady Stark and her brood to be brought here. That woman has been distressed ever since she heard of Lord Bran.”  
  
Fuck. He’d forgotten about Bran. He rubbed a hand over his face. He was completely exhausted. How was he to deal with tragedies on both sides of the family?  
  
“What happened to Lord Bran?”  
  
**  
  
“What happened to Bran?”  
  
She asked her mother after convincing the woman to drink her tea while Sansa put her siblings to bed. It took considerable effort to calm Rickon and assuage Arya. The boy has known loss since he had started walking and when he hears of injury or abandonment now, it shakes him up. When her mother had arrived, he had been whining and whimpering and Sansa had to stroke his hair and feed him warm milk and sing him songs to put him to sleep. Arya had just been...stoic. The rage, the anger, the withdrawal was clear on her face. Her eyes were the only thing that betrayed the pain within. And now, with them sleeping on her barely used marriage bed, she finally was able to sit with her mother and find what exactly happened at Winterfell. With Ray having excused himself to look after Ina, Sansa sat next to her mother and held her hand as she attempted to soothe the woman.  
  
“He fell, Sansa. He fell. Someone took my boy to the roof and pushed him to death. It is only by the Mother’s good grace that he yet lives.”  
  
“Is it known who did this?”  
  
“No. They spoke nary a word. Did not declare their intent or confess their alligeance. Just came and hurt my boy.”  
  
“When did this happen?”  
  
“They broke in three days after we left.”  
  
“It has been a week since! How have we not heard of this?”  
  
“They killed all the ravens. Maester Luwin said it was very hard to procure new trained ones so soon. Rodrik believes they might be vandals.”  
  
Sansa gave it some thought.  
  
It is not uncommon for vandals to attack Keeps. They would target the ones which were abandoned or left unguarded. Or they would attack Keeps which had few people living in it where they would hold women at knifepoint and steal gold and precious stones and abscond. In every known instance of vandalism, precious objects and money was lost. However, harming the Lord of the House, especially with the intent of death, was unheard of.  
  
“Was anything stolen?”  
  
“Nothing. They just came in, killed three guards, injured two others, took Bran to the roof and threw him down below to the gardens, killed the ravens and left on horseback.”  
  
So, they came with purpose. They came with a predetermined plan.  
  
This was not vandalism.  
  
This was a premeditated attack.  
  
But why?  
  
**  
  
But why?  
  
Why would someone want to kill Sandor at his wedding?  
  
The Houses of the West had no love for him. But it would be much easier to kill him when he lived under their nose than to travel all the way to King’s Landing to poison him. Besides, they would not employ a Northern woman to do their deed. But did that mean that Lydia was acting on the order of someone in her House? True that Lady Stark was not fond of him but she wouldn’t poison her own good-son. Not when he was offering her unstipulated amount of money. Besides, it would be much easier to kill Sandor while he lived under her roof.  
  
Why would someone attack Lord Bran?  
  
True that the Northern House competed with Stark Industries but given the company’s loss in the recent years, none had the impulse of bringing harm to a House that was barely managing to survive. The way the attack happened, the precise course of harm, it seemed intentional. Like someone wanted to send a message.  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
Sandor lifted his head and looked at the man standing before him.  
  
“Did you find her?”  
  
“She ran away, my Lord. Hasn’t been since since few hours. I have already sent out a search party.”  
  
If the woman escaped on horseback, she must be out of the city walls and deep into the woods outside by now. If she escaped by water, she could be fuck knows where. Frustrated, Sandor stood and hit the wall beside him.  
  
“Did you find out anything about her?”  
  
“Not enough, my Lord. Few people said she has a young daughter who works at Dreadfort Keep. Said Lydia had to send her out for work after the Starks began running out of money and reduced the staff’s pay.”  
  
Sandor saw red.  
  
Ramsay fucking Bolton.  
  
It made perfect sense. He had every reason to want Sandor dead. He triumphed over the man in winning Sansa’s hand in marriage. It would be almost poetic to kill Sandor at the very wedding that was supposed to be Ramsay’s in the first place.  
  
And perhaps- perhaps the attack on Lord Bran could be orchestrated by him. Vandals who broke into a Keep with the intent of harming the Lord and left without any booty was suspicious in itself. Add to that the fact that Ramsay would probably fester a serious grudge towards House Stark. It would be the perfect reprimand for House Stark to have their Lord insulted.  
  
That sick Bastard.  
  
Perhaps Lydia’s daughter gave her the poison on her Lord’s order. Perhaps Lydia conspired with the Boltons herself. Perhaps Lydia was forced.  
  
The possibilities were too many and with Lydia gone, Sandor would never truly know who was behind such a nefarious act.  
  
Sending out a search party for her would be futile. Besides, if the intent was his death, he needed all his men around him. And with such a precarious situation and considering his new marriage, he needs all the guards he can to protect-  
  
“Where’s Sa-Lady Clegane? Where is she?”  
  
“In your chambers, my Lord. Lady Clegane is with Lady Stark.”  
  
A group of Silent Sisters emerged from the hallway, boxes and baskets in their hand as they moved past him into the room behind him. Sandor moved past them to the direction of his chambers.  
  
Upon opening the doors to the room he was supposed to celebrate his union in, he was met with the sight of mother and daughter sitting on a small table near the window, their hands caught in each other’s. Sansa was the first to notice him and stood on her feet immediately.  
  
“My Lord? I-I-I am sorry, my Lord. I did not know where else to-” Sansa began saying with fearful eyes.  
  
“It is no matter, my Lady.” he was quick to assuage her worries. He did not mind Lady Stark taking up residence in his chambers. “Lady Stark, I am incredibly sorry for your son’s injury. If there is anything House Clegane can do for you, please do not hesitate to let me know. If you would excuse us, I would like to have a word with my wife outside.”  
  
Before Lady Stark had a chance to nod, Sansa was making her way towards him. He led her outside into the adjoining empty room. He shut the door behind them and guided Sansa to a chaise nearby. It was only when he sat next to her that he realized she had tears on her face. His fingers itched to remove any traces of sorrow from her face.  
  
“My Lady. There is something important we must discuss.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord?”  
  
He took a deep breath. Whatever he was going to say to her was pure speculation. He had no proof, so as to speak. But he could not hide his doubts from her. The truth was tantamount to her safety. She had to know who meant her harm. He would not have his wife be ignorant to information that pertained to her safety.  
  
“My Lady, although this is pure speculation, I believe the person who tried to kill me and killed Caelan instead and harmed your brother may be one and the same. I believe it was-”  
  
**  
  
“-Lord Ramsay.”  
  
She had never paid much attention to the silent, solemn way in which her heart worked in her chest. It must, of that she is sure, for Maester Luwin had taught her that the heart pumped blood through the body and kept them alive. She had been fascinated to learn that the heart did its work all the time, incessantly, unrelenting and repetitive. A steady beat that kept everyone alive.  
  
And yet, when she heard that name, she felt her heart stop.  
  
She could feel the silence around her and in it, she could not even hear her own heart beating.  
  
Ramsay Bolton.  
  
It made sense.  
  
Of course he would want to harm Bran. If he were successful in killing Bran, he would rob House Stark of a legal heir. Rickon had ages left before he could take any responsibility. Succession was something House Bolton had suffered from and to inflict the same conundrum on House Stark would probably seem like justice.  
  
And Lord Clegane.  
  
Of course he would want Lord Clegane to be harmed. His wedding to Sansa was the reason for his ire.  
  
No, not the wedding.  
  
Her.  
  
Sansa was the reason for Lord Bolton being angry in the first place. She is the reason Lord Clegane was almost killed at the wedding. She is the reason Bran was now fighting death. _She_ was the reason why Caelan was dead.  
  
How will she ever look her mother in the eye knowing that she is the reason her brother was thrown off their roof?  
  
How will she ever hope for love and happiness from her Lord Husband, from his House, when she is the reason their man was killed?  
  
“-eathe Sansa, Breathe.”  
  
The hand on her back, the one running up and down her spine, sending warmth into her skin, called her back.  
  
“In, breathe in.” a voice instructed and she obliged, opening her lips and taking in a huge gulp of air in.  
  
“And out…” Sansa adhered, letting out a sigh of air.  
  
The voice instructed some more and Sansa listened and did as instructed. In and out. In and out.  
  
“I did this.” she whispered.  
  
“Sansa? Sansa, look at me!”  
  
Sansa turned to look at her husband, her husband who could have died. Because of her.  
  
“This is not your fault. It’s Ramsay’s. His and his only. You are as much a victim of his as anyone else involved. I will not have you moping around and feeling guilty about something that has nothing to do with you.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“This is not up for discussion Sansa.” he said, holding her face in his palm. “I have no proof that Ramsay is behind this all. Until I find anything that links him to any of this, I will be forced to do the only thing that I can- protect you. He failed in his attempt to kill me or Bran and his madness will no doubt make him target you more. I need to take you to the only place I can protect you well, at my home.”  
  
Sansa nodded along.  
  
If she went to the West with her Lord Husband, it would draw Lord Ramsay’s rage away from Winterfell. It would keep her brother, her sister and her mother safe.  
  
And when Lord Ramsay would come to the West for her, she would do all she could to protect her Lord Husband and his House. Despite his kind words, it could not be contended that _she_ caused all this pain and death. House Clegane was generous in that it’s Lord forgave her and absolved her of her crime but Sansa would never forget the part that she played in this tragedy.  
  
When the time would come, Sansa would do whatever she could to prevent any more lives being lost in her name.  
  
And even if that meant surrendering to the enemy,  
  
Then so be it.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I followed the Faith of the Seven ritual for funeral. So, as per what I have read, Caelan's insides would be removed by the Silent Sisters and his body would be prepared for travel and sent in a special carriage and because he has a place of importance in House Clegane, he would be buried with all the honors near his manor/House Sept. 
> 
> Also, just to be clear, when Sandor says "This is not up for discussion", it's not him being an asshole and dismissing Sansa, its him, a military leader and a Lord of his own House commanding someone sternly. Keep in mind that Sansa and Sandor have barely scratched the surface of knowing each other on an emotional level so misunderstandings are bound to happen, which is why Sansa deems herself responsible even though Sandor clearly does not. 
> 
> I am going on vacation and for the next three weeks, I will probably upload two chapters a week.


	17. Aftermath of Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa deal with the tragedy that has struck them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the prolonged absence. I had a big life decision to make and if you come from a dysfunctional family, you'd know that discussing matters that requires the input of the family that has zero communication skills leads to a lot of dormant issues unearthing and showing it's ugly face. It has been a bad stretch of two months filled with a lot of drama that took a huge toll on me. But it's fine, I am doing better now. Hopefully, with my mood being better, I'd be able to continue this story with the same passion as before. 
> 
> Thank you for not abandoning this story and being here.

In the face of death, it was hard to hold on to any semblance of normalcy. 

He sat for a long while with Sansa in his arms, soothing the girl and running a hand through her tresses. He was even able to convince her to eat some food. The arm around Sansa remained in its place throughout their time together and the woman herself seemed more than content in staying close to him. A bystander might see them and assume that it was Sansa who was drawing comfort from him but Sandor felt the tension seeping out of his shoulder as he kept his wife in embrace. He felt strangely content in just holding her in his arms. 

They remained in companionable silence for a while, the man and wife chewing pieces of honeyed bread and fruit with indifference. Sandor appreciated the moment of quiet he had with her for he knew that once he stepped out of the room with her, he would have to face many adversaries. 

The first obstacle was convincing Lady Stark of Bolton involvement. 

Sandor was unsure of the support Lady Stark would lend towards his suspicions. His doubts were not unfounded, for Lady Stark had dismissed Ramsay when he had attacked her own daughter. Perhaps with her son, she would be a little more stringent but one could only hope for such. 

“I-I don’t understand.” Lady Stark said. “Why would Lydia want Lord Clegane dead?”

Sandor sighed. He had felt that it was pertinent that Lady Stark know of the House they all suspected was behind the attack. It would be dangerous to let her go back to the North without warning that her enemy resided next door. It was to this cause that he, Sansa and Ray had sought an audience with the Lady who looked just as distressed as she was the day before. Lady Stark was a very taxing woman to have a conversation with under normal circumstances, let alone were things were as tense. Sandor looked at Ray who took the reigns of the conversation with far more grace than Sandor would have. 

“My Lady, we are not certain. However, some of your House staff have reported that Lydia’s daughter works in the Dreadfort Keep and that Lydia would meet her daughter occasionally. It is possible that Lydia would have come under Lord Ramsay’s influence or could have been coerced by him. It is hard to determine anything unless we find her. We have sent a search party out for her but any hopes of finding her are in vain.”

They gave Lady Stark a few minutes to digest the information before burdening her with more. 

“And my Lady, we also believe that Lord Ramsay may have been the one who orchestrated the attack on Winterfell Keep.”

Lady Stark’s head snapped towards Ray and Sandor held his breath, He felt Sansa slip her hand into his and he intertwined their fingers under the table. 

“Wha- What do you mean?”

“My Lady, this is all a speculation. However, it is highly unlikely that two attacks, intent on death of the Lord of the Houses occurred so close to each other unintentionally. Why would a group of unmarked men break into the Keep, try to kill your son and destroy ravens but not steal anything? This is not the work of petty robbers. This is much more sinister. The only thing that links the attack intended on Lord Clegane and Lord Stark is Lady Sansa and no one has wished her harm except for Lord Ramsay.”

Sandor felt Sansa stiffen next to him and gently squeezed her fingers in his. True that she was what linked the two incidents, it was no fault of her nonetheless. The blame was solely Ramsay’s. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and saw her shoulders relax a little. 

“Oh Seven! What do we do?” Lady Stark asked, panic evident on her face. 

“Well,” Sandor began, “considering that Lord Ramsay failed in his attempt to kill either me or Lord Bran, chances are that that madman will strike again. I suggest you hire more guards, my Lady. Sansa will be safe with us and there are leagues between the North and the West. She will be well protected.” 

“I-I need to go back to Bran.” Lady Stark said. “When can I leave?”

“We suggest you stay the day, my Lady. Leave at the first light tomorrow morning.” 

Lady Stark nodded, seemingly satisfied with the suggestion. Sandor looked at Sansa in permission and he nodded at her. 

“Mother, Lord Clegane and I had a proposal for you.” She pulled her finger away from Sandor and his fingers itched to reclaim the lost warmth. She reached out and held her mother’s hands. “Mother, I understand that with Bran unwell and work left unsupervised, you will be burdened with several responsibilities. Lord Clegane has offered to host Rickon and Arya until Bran recovers. If they come and live with us, you can spare more time in care for Bran.”

Sandor had been the one to suggest it. He had to admit he had taken a liking to the Little Lord and Arya. He did not want them to suffer from the negligence that Lady Stark was bound to show them, especially now that Bran was unwell. He knew that Sansa was attached to the young boy and he’d be dead before he stood in the way of anything that made Sansa happy. 

Lady Stark seemed to be considering their offer before she turned to speak to Sandor. 

“That is very kind of you to offer such a thoughtful gesture, my Lord.. However, I believe I have failed as a mother in the last few years.” she sighed and turned to Sansa, “With your father and Robb...what happened to them... it just took a lot out of me and it was unfair of me to expect you to raise Bran and Arya and look after the household when I should have been doing that myself. I will not hinder your married life by burdening you with the care of two young children. It is time that I take responsibility for my own children. It will be hard, so hard without you, but I will do it. I just wish I had this awakening before and reduced the burden on you years ago. I am sorry for everything I did, Sansa.”

“Oh mother-” Sansa’s voice broke as she clasped her mother’s hand tighter. 

Ray and Sandor pushed away their chairs and stood and excused themselves, leaving the room to give some privacy to mother and daughter. 

Sandor softly pulled the door behind him and when he sneaked a peek at the mother and daughter, they were caught in a hug and Lady Stark’s eyes were gleaming with tears. The door gave a soft click and closed and Sandor turned to Ray who was looking at him with narrowed eyes. 

“You suggested fostering the siblings?”

“Yes…?” Sandor replied hesitantly. 

Ray’s face smoothed to a smile and he patted Sandor’s shoulder muttering good man and went his merry way declaring that he was going to ask the staff to start preparing for travel. 

Sandor moved to a room nearby and ordered a maid to deliver food and wine for himself and the Lady Stark and her children. His own chambers were occupied by the Stark women and children, so he relegated to an empty room nearby. The staff served him a bowl of stew with some bread and pulling a chair by the open window, he ate his dinner with a view of the open seas. 

Sandor had never seen this day coming. Then again, no one thought that their wedding would coincide with the death of a close friend and would get overshadowed by loss and despair. His mind went back to every little interaction he ever had with Caelan. From the first day when a haggard and bruised boy showed up at his doorstep looking for work to the last conversation of theirs that led to Sandor handing over the jug of poisoned wine to the man. In many ways, Sandor had raised the boy himself. With Caelan, Sandor could be the older brother he wished he had. At the age of four and ten, Sandor had been the one to thrust a sword in the boy’s hand, which the boy had then mastered and put to use within a year. When the boy had been too cowardly to confess his love for Ina, Sandor had pushed him, forced him to spew his feelings lest he end up like the rest of them. Caelan, in turn, had taught him forgiveness and compassion. He had been the one to bring jest into their merry band of lonely men. He was quick to laugh and his insufferable joviality seeped into them. That foolish boy was honorable to a fault, forever defending and believing in Sandor’s ideals. He often jested about sacrificing himself for his House’s glory and little did the fool know that he was right. 

Somewhere in the midst of his musing, tears began streaming down his face. Sandor wiped his face with the back of his tunic and carried the remainder of his dinner outside. Placing the leftover near his door for the staff to collect, he decided to go to bed. 

He went under the furs in the light tunic he was dressed in. 

Facing away from the door, Sandor once again lost himself in his thoughts. 

Caelan deserved to be mourned, he deserved to be remembered. Sandor would see to it that the man was never forgotten. He would do everything in his power to honor the man. He would not sully Caelan’s legacy by losing himself in the grief of his loss. He would turn his sorrow into redemption and make something of it. He would turn his anger into an inferno and burn the House that caused this catastrophe. 

His door creaked open and instinctively, Sandor’s hands went under the pillow and he grabbed the dagger he always kept on his person. He had stationed guards outside but whoever it was, must have slipped their notice. Clothes ruffled and feet shuffled and he felt his furs being raised. Sandor closed his eyes and counted to three before turning around with his arms raised to strike. 

His wife screamed fearfully, her gaze locked on the dagger in his hand. 

Years and years of training was reigned in control in a matter of seconds and Sandor dropped the dagger before he injured his wife with it. He sat upright as Sansa hurried away from the bed. Exhaling and inhaling deeply to temper the adrenaline rush, he took the dagger and put it back to his place. 

“Sansa, you must never, never sneak upon me unannounced. You understand?” he said gently before holding out his hand and with the patience of a sage, waited for her to come to him. “I am sorry for reacting instinctively. Please come back to bed, Little Bird.” 

As she moved closer to him, he realized that the night shift she wore was more practical and less painfully sensuous like the previous night. She hesitantly placed her palm in hers and he gently guided her to lay down beside him. 

He did not expect her to join him for the night. Considering that her family was leaving the next day, he had assumed that she would want to spend the night with them. 

He laid down beside her, both of the facing the ceiling above. 

“I thought you would sleep with your family tonight, my Lady.” 

A moment’s silence and then, 

“I am, my Lord.” 

And there she went, saying things like that and making his chest feel all tight. 

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to let the woman see the power she had over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up as soon as my throat stops feeling like it has been run over by a tractor.


	18. A Farewell and A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks leave their daughter and Sansa begins her journey to her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A healthy sprinkling of fluff and some evil foreboding.

When she awoke, it was to the steady rhythm of her Lord Husband’s heartbeat. 

Sansa blinked and squinted at the beige wall. It took her a while to remember where she was. She moved her fingers and it was only then she realized that she was draped over her Lord Husband’s chest. For a moment, she froze. She felt embarrassed and her first instinct had been to pull away but then she realized that would awaken the man. Would he be cross if he found Sansa using him like a pillow? What if he was someone who did not like to hold someone in his sleep? Would he chastise her for crowding his space?

It was only when she shifted that she realized that she wasn’t the only one holding on to him. He had an arm around her and his large palm was resting softly at the curve of her waist. Her eyes travelled from his hand to his face and she sighed in relief when she saw him deep in slumber. His mouth was slightly ajar in sleep and with his head to the side, he had his scars on display. 

Sansa felt the urge to reach out and touch his face. Would it hurt if she touched him? She wanted to feel what the skin felt like under her fingers. She wanted to reach out and smooth the creases that were present even in his sleep. 

Her husband grunted and Sansa feared that he would awaken but he merely smacked his lips and went right back to sleep. 

Sansa smiled softly. 

Laying her head back down on her Lord Husband’s chest, Sansa let out a small sigh. 

This was strangely peaceful. 

She had oftimes in her childhood walked in on her parents during their tender moments of marital bliss. She had once walked in on her mother perched on her father’s lap, had once craved their warmth and had snuck into their bed in the early hours of the morning to find them in an embrace. Her father’s affection for her mother was known throughout their staff and the staff would often come upon them sharing a loving moment seated in the garden. She had looked up to her parent’s bond as a child and had longed for a marriage as loving as theirs. 

And in moments like this, she could almost convince herself that her marriage, this marriage, could be just as loving. 

But she knew better. 

With the shadow of loss looming over them and the ever present danger that Lord Bolton presented, Sansa doubted if they would find peace enduring enough to establish a good relationship. 

Shaking herself out of the bad thoughts, Sansa pulled herself away from her Husband’s embrace. It was still early hours of the morning and surely Mother needed help with the travel arrangements. 

As Sansa pulled away, her Lord Husband’s grip on her waist tightened and he rolled over, his other hand coming around her waist and he pulled her to him. 

“Mm no. No g’way” he mumbled. 

She giggled at his petulance. 

She took one of his arms and moved it away from her and though heavy, the limb complied. 

“Sleep, my Lord. I must help my mother.” she said. 

He scowled in his sleep before loosening his arm around her and Sansa used the opportunity to lift herself out of the bed. She arranged the covers around her Lord Husband before gathering her robe and leaving the room. 

She made her way to her marriage chamber where her mother and siblings were currently stationed. When she opened the door, she found a staff from Winterfell cleaning the room. When she noticed Sansa moving in, she dropped into a low curtsy. 

“Do you know where the Lady Stark is?” Sansa asked. 

“The Lady Stark and Lady Arya left to prepare for the travels a few moments ago, my Lady. I was asked to stay and awaken Lord Rickon but the Lord refuses to wake.”

Sansa smiled at the woman and moved to the bed where Rickon’s hair was visible under the covers. She sat beside him and pulled the covers down until his face was visible. The boy was sprawled on his stomach, his face slack in sleep, a thumb jammed in his mouth. She took a moment to just watch him and preserve the innocent face in her memories. She ran a hand through his hair and bent down to press a kiss on his hair. 

“Wakey wakey, little Rickey.” she sang. 

She smiled to herself as the boy dug his face into the cover. Then he turned to her and peeked a look at her before sitting up and rubbing a fist into his eyes. Sansa reached out to pull his hands away before he hurt himself. 

“Mama?” 

Sansa felt her heart break. Rickon often mistook her for her mother when he was younger. She assumed it was because she looked a lot like her Lady Mother. 

She gathered him into her arm and placed kisses on his hair as tears escaped her eyes. 

She kept him in her hold until he began to squirm. Then she took him to the basin adjacent to the room and helped him with his morning task. The staff from Winterfell fetched Rickon’s clothes and Sansa helped him bathe and dress. Leaving the child to the woman, Sansa took a brief bath herself and dressed herself in one of the lilac gown her Lord Husband had commissioned for her. The skirt was made of a lighter material and held several pockets within. The square neckline accentuated her collarbones and the short sleeves helped ease her movement. It was a practical dress that would help her work and move swiftly while still looking quite fashionable. 

After making herself and her brother presentable, Sansa met her mother. The two women then proceeded to go from one room to another, instructing the House staff on how to gather the things for travel. Sansa went to the kitchens and asked for fruit and dry meat for the travel. She chose to ignore the people who carried crates filled with her bride price to the carriage. When they were just about done, her Lord Husband appeared with Raymond and Irwin. 

The men bid farewell to her mother and siblings with respect befitting their station. Sandor pulled Arya to a side and gave her something while her mother was preoccupied in her conversation with Raymond. 

Raymond and her Lord Husband helped her mother, Arya and Rickon climb into the carriage. Rickon had to be held back by her Lady Mother because he kept trying to escape and run towards Sansa. Sansa felt her own throat grow heavy and had to wait until Rickon’s wails trailed away with the carriage before she ran back inside the rented manor, threw herself on the bed Rickon woke in earlier in the day and cried her heart out. 

She knew the day would come when she would be expected to part from her family, bid farewell to those who raised her and walk away with the man she would raise her own family with. But knowing something and living it were two very different things. How was she to go on without Arya throwing peas at her across the table? Who would shock her with his vast array of knowledge like Bran? Who would follow her around like Rickon in her new House? At home, her father was everywhere. His portrait still hung in the hall, his horse in the stable, his clothes were preserved in his wardrobe and the armchair he often sat in and read, which still smelled like him, was still there in his reading room. 

How was she to move on without her family?

How did other women do it before her?

She cried until every vestige of sorrow was poured out. 

She must have fallen asleep because she woke to a hand running through her hair. 

“Sansa?” 

She turned to the voice and found her Lord Husband sitting beside her, his face clouded in worry. Sansa realized that she must have fallen asleep crying and chastised herself. Her Lord Husband would deem her so juvenile, he would think her a little girl for crying. She hastily pushed herself upright and began righting her gown. 

“M-my Lord, I apologize. I-”

“It is quite alright, my Lady.” he said, pulling his hand away and sitting away from her on the bed. “I was only waking you for lunch, my Lady. We must hasten with gathering our belongings. We leave at the first light tomorrow.” 

“Yes, my Lord. Please give me a moment. I shall meet you in the solar.” 

When her Lord Husband left the room, Sansa washed her face and mentally scolded herself. She was the Lady of a House now. She must not cry herself to sleep. Her shoulder squared, her jaw set and her face stern, she walked out to the solar to dine with her Lord Husband and to prepare for her travels to her new home. 

……………………………..

Sansa seemed oddly distant through the rest of the day. 

Sandor did not wish to overwhelm her and chose to work with Ray to prepare for their travel the next day. They had bought a carriage for Sansa but Sandor deemed it incomplete and set out to the market to buy plush cushions, thick covers and decorations for the carriage. Given that he had minimal knowledge of what the inside of a Lady’s carriage looked like, he took two staff with him who had previously worked for House Lannister. They were eager to help him purchase things that they had seen in Lady Cersei’s carriage. With their assistance, he bought a mirror, a large piece of cloth and threads and needles if Sansa chose to sew during the travel, few books to keep her engaged, Dornish sweets and candies from Highgarden. 

He wished he were more adept to handling a woman in her sorrow. Since a young age, he was surrounded by men and men, in their moments of despair, could be distracted by women, liquor and sparring. He couldn’t possibly ask Sansa to engage in any such activities. He knew she was mourning the departure of her family but he did not know how to console her. Sandor never had a mother or siblings to mourn. He had celebrated the day Gregor had died. 

“My Lord?” 

Sandor turned back and faced one of the woman who had come with him. Edna had been a staff under the Lannisters and had come to Irwin to seek employment after the House’s downfall. She was old, with grey hair and lines on her forehead but she was strong and worked efficiently. 

“Yes, Edna?” 

“You have been staring into the distance for a while, my Lord. We have bought all we deem Lady Sansa might need. Was there anything else you wished to purchase?” 

Sandor blinked. He was not aware he had been so lost in thought. 

“Yes. Of course. Um-”

“My Lord?”

“Yes, Edna?”

“I have watched many Lords flounder in marriage. May I offer an advice, my Lord?” Sandor nodded at her. “Leaving your wife alone during her time of sorrow will not tantamount to wedded bliss. Even if in silence, you must stay with her, my Lord.”

Sandor smiled her. 

“Edna, how would you like a new job?” 

…………………………………….

Sansa had just finished instructing the staff on how to pack her clothes into trunks. 

She collapsed on the chaise with a sigh. 

Sansa had worked the whole day. She had gone from to room, gathering everything that belonged to her and her Lord Husband and had packed them all away. Then she had gone to the kitchen to prepare for the travels that would take them a fortnight to complete. Though the work had served as distraction, she still could not stop thinking about her family. And above all, a part of her was heartbroken that her Lord Husband had not been by her side the whole day. Perhaps he was cross with her? 

A knock rapped her door. 

“Yes?” 

The door opened and her Lord Husband walked in with an elderly woman in toe. Sansa stood from the chaise and brushed the skirt of her gown. 

“This is Edna, my Lady. she is to be assigned to your care. You may choose your own handmaidens once we reach Lannisport.”

The woman - Edna - bowed. “I shall be glad to assist you in anything you require, my Lady.” 

Sansa smiled and nodded at the woman and her Lord Husband dismissed her with a small nod. 

“May we, my Lady?” her Lord Husband asked, gesturing to the chaise and they both sat next to each other. 

“My Lady, I must apologize.” 

Sansa was confused. Her husband continued. 

“I should not have left you when you were distressed by your family’s departure. I am afraid I do not know how to console anyone. It was my fear of inability that drove me away. However, I should have stayed by you. I hope you will forgive me, my Lady.”

Sansa stared at her husband, too stunned for words. 

“I believe I should apologize to you as well, my Lord. I should not have been so...petulant ...as to cry. I am sorry, my Lord. I apologize for any embarrassment caused.” 

Her Lord Husband reached out and grasped her hand in his. 

“I grew up without a mother and loving siblings. I must admit, my Lady, I do not know what is like to have a loving family. All I have are friends I have collected through the years. Ray, Irwin, Cae-” he cleared his throat. “I may not have a family but I do appreciate and understand the bond you have with yours. It is unfair how a woman is plucked from the arms of those who raise her and is expected to marry someone and never yearn for those who raise her. I suppose in time you will learn to live without them but should you ever chose to, you can always travel and meet them. Or invite them to Lannisport.”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. 

“Thank you, my Lord. You are very kind.” 

“Do you wish to know what I gifted Arya, my Lady?” he asked with mischief in his voice. 

She raised a brow. “Pray tell, Lord Husband.”

“I gave her a bow” he said. “All the bows in Winterfell were heavy. She needed something light. So I had one commissioned for her. I had wolves carved on it.” 

Sansa laughed. “I am sure you have made Arya very happy and my Lady Mother very angry.”

Her Lord Husband shrugged. “Well, she is too far to scold me now.”

Sansa laughed. 

Perhaps she could still have the loving marriage she always wanted. 

……………………………………..

The hours spent on the road were gruelling. 

If it were just him and the men, they would have covered the distance in a shorter span of time. However, there were a lot of women travelling with them. There were a few children too, some whose parents worked for Sandor and some wayward souls who had joined them in hopes for employ or a better life. There were few elderly men too. 

Besides, he did not want to tax Sansa with a rushed journey. 

Therefore, they stopped every night. Preferably at an inn but if one was not available in the vicinity, they would set camp in the night. There were very few nights when they did not rest but only because the road was notorious. Even in such a night, Sandor ensured that Sansa was comfortable in her carriage, that guards walked close by her carriage and that Edna stayed in her company. 

There was nothing that took more precedence than her safety and comfort. 

And if he was stretching the journey because it was bringing them close, well, no one had to know. 

He broke his fast with her and shared the last meal with her and during those hours, he found a lot about her. She loved lemon cakes. She wasn’t particularly fond of sour food but she liked lemon cakes. She preferred meat over fish but the North had very limited supply of fish so she hadn’t many variants of it. She preferred making her own gowns over buying them and Sandor had already planned to give her a well lit room where she could craft to her heart’s content. She liked sunflowers. She liked how bright they were, how they all turned to the sun. She had never taken a bath in the sea. She thought ‘knees’ was a funny word. 

Their shared moments had been very endearing. Though they did not progress in their sexual relationship, their shared companionship was more than anything Sandor could ask for. 

With five days left for their arrival, Sandor hoped Sansa felt well and truly welcomed to the House by the time they reached the Manor. 

That morning, Sansa had expressed her desire to sleep in a tent under the stars. So while Edna and Sansa had gone to the stream nearby with few guards, Sandor assisted his men in raising their biggest tent, creating a fire nearby and lining the floor of the tent with the cushions and covers from the carriage. They were just done when Edna and Sansa had appeared out of the woods. Sansa smiled when she saw the tent and Edna gave a knowing smirk at Sandor and excused herself. 

“My Lord, what is all this?” Sansa asked, walking towards him. 

“I believe you wanted to know what it was like to sleep under the stars, my Lady.” 

Sandor must have done something right for Sansa gave him a wide smile and Sandor felt like a child who have been fed one too many sweets. His stomach felt funny. 

They shared a meal under the stars, seated near the fire (near being a doos distance away). Sandor placed his back to a log and Sansa sat by his side. Sandor told her of his childhood with Ray and laughed when she took a sip of his whiskey and promptly twisted her face in displeased. She stuck her tongue out at the taste and it was very unladylike and Sandor absolutely loved it. 

After an hour, Sansa was pressed close to his chest, his arm around her. 

She looked up at him. “Thank you, my Lord.” she said, earnestly. 

Sandor drew his head back and looked down at her and gave her a small smile. She was looking up at him with eyes full of trust and contentment and something else he could not identify. The fire had given a glow to her skin and made her hair look one with it. Reverently, sandor raised a hand and with the back of his knuckles, traced the freckles on her cheek. Sansa closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand. When she opened them, the fire cast a glow and the black of her pupil over the blue in her eyes. 

Sandor leaned down until their nose were touching. He let his intent be known but left the choice to her. When she lifted her chin and met his lips, he closed his eyes, his heart beating too loudly in its cage. 

It was chaste and they shared nothing more than few innocent kisses but Sandor did not want to overwhelm her. He pulled back and rested his forehead against her. 

Gods give him strength, the girl would be the death of him. 

……………………………………

Green eyes spied from a distance. 

How could they? After everything? Sharing kisses under the night sky as though they were lovers from a bard? As though their House hadn’t been ripped apart a few days ago. 

Those blue eyes. Red hair. Fair skin. Thin waist. High tits. It took only a few things for Lord Sandor Clegane to have his tail tucked between his legs. 

She turned back and walked towards the group of women setting up tents and beds. Most of them were women who worked in the Manor. Some had joined the caravan for safe passage. A whole bunch of gaggling women. 

The perfect crowd. 

They say words spread like wildfire. 

If so, she was going to burn down an entire kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the Clegane Manor.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments below. I love knowing what you guys think of the chapters. 
> 
> Kudos are always appreciated. 
> 
> I am always open to criticism and suggestions. 
> 
> Wherever you are, whoever you are, I hope you are happy and healthy. Feel free to reach out to me if you believe you need someone to talk to. You can comment below or hit me up on tumblr or email me (the usernames are on my profile). Just know that you aren't alone and I am always open to having more friends. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Shee x


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